


If Truth Is North

by lyres



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, M/M, but what else is new, stuck together, these two have some communication issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-04-27 01:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 80,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5028577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyres/pseuds/lyres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I get it," Grantaire said. "We can even make it a deal, if you like – no detours, just straight home. Shake hands on it.”<br/>Enjolras eyed him sceptically. “All right,” he said finally and extended a hand. “Straight home, no detours.”<br/>Grantaire cracked a smile, taking the hand that was offered. “A gentlemen's agreement.” </p><p>(There's a car that has to get from Norway to France, Enjolras doesn't drive, and Grantaire just happens to be there.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bergen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's beautiful, beautiful art for this fic now and I'm not above begging you to look at it [here](http://apitnobaka.tumblr.com/post/158889781257/for-this-beautiful-slow-build-exr-road-trip). :)  
>   
> Titel from ["South"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRD-8h8h98o) by Sleeping at Last.

It was Enjolras' fourth day here without Combeferre, and Grantaire refused to leave his room.

“Look,” he said from where he was sitting on the floor with a book in his lap, leaning against Enjolras' bed, “I get that you're desperate to get rid of me and everything, but I have to share a twelve-square-meter hostel room with the most obnoxiously affectionate Danish couple in the _world_ , and a sixty year old man from Portugal. I'm not claiming to be a good person, but not even you can think I'm awful enough to deserve that.”

Enjolras knew that tone too well to think correcting him would make a difference. “Why would you be at the hostel right now, anyway?” he said instead. “It's broad daylight, don't you have pictures to take? This is your vacation, isn't it?”

“It was,” Grantaire said. “There's really not as much to photograph in your temporary home of choice as I'd hoped. Honestly, I'm bored with it.”

“That can't be true.” Enjolras could think of no one as skilled at entertaining himself as Grantaire. And, granted, there were very likely more exciting places in the world than Bergen, Norway – it wasn't a particularly large city, if it could be called a city at all, and while it was charming and Enjolras never regretted his decision to come here, it didn't seem like the kind of place Grantaire would typically be drawn to. It lacked vibrancy for that, and possibly danger. But Grantaire had chosen to spend money and time on staying here nonetheless, so there was really no version of events where he genuinely tired of a city after having spent two days there – someone less adventurous, maybe, but not Grantaire.

That aside, this was _Norway_ , and Grantaire had come here at least with the pretence of wanting to take pictures. Surely if there was anything Norway wasn't lacking, it was subjects for photographs.

“I'm afraid it is,” Grantaire said. “I did say I could make myself useful. Offer still stands, you know.”

“Your offer to help with my thesis?” Enjolras hoped that his frown managed to be conveyed in his tone of voice – yes, it _was_ petty not to turn around to face Grantaire, but he lacked the energy to care. Earlier today, he had genuinely seen stars dancing before his eyes for a second before he'd thought of sitting down and drinking some water. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been this overworked. “I think I'm good.”

“Are you sure? I've been told I can offer pretty unique perspectives on...” Enjolras could hear him scramble to his feet and come up behind him to peer at Enjolras' laptop over his shoulder. “'Diverse Societies and International Migration.' Yeah, one of my special interests, that.”

“I'm sure your insight would be invaluable,” Enjolras murmured, and he didn't mean for it to come out in a harsh way, but Grantaire drummed his fingers against the backrest of his chair and straightened abruptly.

“Right.” He had a way of making a single syllable sound agonised; Enjolras was never going to get used to it. “I'll just, uh. Leave you to further your erudition, then. Wouldn't want to drain this room of creative energy.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “It's not a problem for me to have you here, you know it's not. I just honestly can't imagine that being holed up in here when summer's right outside is what you want – you're on holiday, you're supposed to enjoy it.”

Grantaire was halfway to the door, and seemed unsure where to look. He opened his mouth, and was cut off by a shrill ringing sound.

Enjolras tore his gaze away. The ringing came from the Skype window that had suddenly popped up – a godsend, really.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras turned to look at him again. “It's Combeferre. You can – I mean, please stay. I think he'd like to see you.”

Grantaire hesitated for a moment, his hand still hovering over the doorhandle. Then, he walked back to the desk, and, without saying a word, leaned over to click “answer” on the screen.

Combeferre didn't look good. He was clutching a mug, and Enjolras knew him well enough to be sure that it contained three espresso shots, no milk, no sugar. Especially without his glasses, he looked incredibly tired. At least they were in the same boat, then, Enjolras thought bitterly.

“Hey,” Combeferre said, making some effort not to betray his exhaustion. “Oh, it's good to see you. Grantaire,” he added with a sincere smile when he noticed Grantaire standing behind Enjolras. “Keeping Enjolras on his toes, I hope?”

“Well, you know me,” Grantaire deadpanned. “Always happy to help.”

“I'm glad someone's keeping an eye on him,” Combeferre said, and Enjolras decided not to mention that whatever Grantaire's intentions were in hanging around Enjolras' room, keeping an eye on him was unlikely to be among them.

“How are you?” he said instead. “Did you settle in all right?”

“Haven't had time to,” Combeferre said and seemed to be lifting his laptop, shifting the angle of the webcam to reveal two still-packed bags and a mess of discarded clothes on the ground behind him. “It's been...” He paused. “It's been what it's been.”

“Not exactly philanthropic of them to not even pay you if you're going to fly across Europe on a day's notice,” Grantaire said, frowning. “What kind of clinic asks that from a volunteer?”

“A severely underfunded one,” Combeferre said. He was still smiling, but it looked hollow. “They're doing the best they can, it's just not a very good situation. For anyone. And I did have a choice, I don't blame them.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Grantaire said. Enjolras stayed quiet, wondering when he started agreeing with Grantaire on this. It was difficult not to support Combeferre's commitment to volunteering, impossible not to admire it, even, but being committed to the point where Combeferre was prepared to leave the last two weeks of his semester abroad behind on the base of one phonecall from the clinic was selfless to the point of being self-destructive. It had left them both in an organisational mess that Enjolras had had no time to try and clean up yet, and neither, of course, had Combeferre.

“How's your holiday, Grantaire?” Combeferre asked, in a very transparent attempt at changing the subject. “Have you been to the university museum yet? I meant to tell you before I left; they have this exhibition on ecclesiastical art you might enjoy.”

“Shame on you for not mentioning that,” Grantaire said with mock-indignation. “When you know perfectly well what a huge fan of all things ecclesiastical I am.”

Combeferre actually laughed a little. “Well, now you know. It really is worth it, and you can get in for free if you pass yourself off as a student.”

“Oh, I doubt that's going to work,” Grantaire said, smiling wryly. “People are going to smell illiteracy on me; I flaunt it without even noticing. Thanks, though. I'll be just as happy as a paying customer.”

Enjolras was lucky the knot he suddenly felt in his stomach didn't have time to coil any tighter, because just then, Grantaire jumped as his phone chimed loudly.

“For everything's sake,” he murmured, and Enjolras didn't miss his tortured expression, even though that sardonic grin slid back on his face after only a second. “So sorry to deprive you both of my company,” he said, holding up his phone. “This probably won't take long.”

He slipped out of the room before Enjolras or Combeferre could say anything more.

“Right,” Combeferre said, his voice tinny through the speakers. “Has he been around a lot?”

“Every day since you went back.” Enjolras ran a hand through his hair – a nervous habit, as Combeferre well knew, and his pixelated image on the screen looked sympathetic. “No, it's not – it doesn't bother me that he sticks around, I just don't really understand it. Why hang around here when the world's out there? It's unlike him, don't you think?”

“Maybe,” Combeferre said, in that tone he tended to use when he was conceding something he didn't actually agree with. Enjolras couldn't blame him – he had been surprised, too, over the last few days, at how little he minded the company. “Listen, I was going to suggest something to you, concerning him – and the car.”

“Oh.” Enjolras could think of nothing else to say. Along with all the administration trouble Enjolras had to sort out in Combeferre's stead, the car was their biggest problem. In fact, the problem the car caused just by being here was so big that Enjolras had put some determination into ignoring it over the last few days, because he couldn't use a difficulty that insurmountable right now.

“Yes, it's... I have a feeling you're not going to like this suggestion a lot, so promise me you'll hear me out first.”

Enjolras felt the crease between his eyebrows. “You're going to make me promise? We're adults.”

“And I'm kindly asking you to act like one. Just say you're going to let me finish before cutting me off with the inevitable 'no.'”

“Of course I am.”

“All right,” Combeferre said, and took a deep breath. “So we were talking about having the car transferred back here, remember? And I looked up some contractors for that, and it just – it overall doesn't look like we're going to find anyone who's trustworthy and affordable. I don't want us to have a random car theft in another country on our hands, on top of everything else.”

Enjolras chewed on his bottom lip, patiently waiting for the suggested solution. He had a vague idea of where this might be going, and if his hunch was correct, then Combeferre was right. He did not like it.

“Now, I thought that since you're out of the question as driver, and Grantaire is currently there and has to get back to Paris, too, the obvious solution would be—”

“Don't say it.”

Combeferre, admirably, made an attempt at concealing his frustration. “Enjolras. What was that about us being adults? I thought maybe Grantaire could—”

“I suddenly can't hear you,” Enjolras said flatly, half to indulge Combeferre, half because he was genuinely feeling childish enough to refuse to listen to this. This week was going terribly as it was – his essay was nowhere near finished, finals had been incredibly stressful and barely left time to eat, there was a bureaucratic hailstorm waiting to be conquered before he could go back home, and he didn't deserve to deal with all of this at once.

It really was lucky that Combeferre was among the few people who knew how immature Enjolras could get under stress. He had only ever let it show around Combeferre – not that this precaution necessarily meant escaping judgement.

Combeferre sighed. “I know it's not ideal, but you have to admit that it's reasonable. You both have to go to Paris, the car has to go to Paris; it's the simplest solution we have.”

“He'll say no,” Enjolras said. He wasn't sure where the conviction he said it with came from; he didn't feel it.

“You don't give him enough credit,” Combeferre said, with mild reproach to his tone.

“Fine, he'll probably agree, but he shouldn't. It's too much to ask of him.”

“Don't you think you should let him be the judge of that?”

Enjolras couldn't come up with a retort. A vague sense of guilt echoed faintly through him at his attempt to wind himself out of this; there was no legal reason he couldn't drive, and Combeferre did everything he could so he wouldn't have to ask it of him. He was well aware that most people wouldn't be half as understanding. “I'll ask,” he said. After a few moments of silence, he added, “But you're not completely right. It's the most reasonable solution, yes, but the simplest?” He wasn't even entirely sure what part of him it was that rebelled so much at making this trip with Grantaire. The most petty, childish one, that was so easily antagonised – or some other part, one that he hesitated to put a name to because he could never seem to figure it out.

“Maybe not,” Combeferre agreed, and then he smiled a little, in that way that Enjolras had come to fear over the years because it usually meant that he knew something Enjolras didn't. “Or maybe you'll be surprised.”

It took Grantaire another ten minutes to come back inside, so by the time he did, Combeferre had already gone back to getting his life in Paris in order, and Enjolras had used the little window he'd had to try and scramble the right words together. He hadn't succeeded in that; Grantaire came through the door, dishevelled and with an irritated frown, and Enjolras' mind went blank.

“What's wrong?” he asked. “Who was it?” He forced himself not to get up and move towards him; something was urging him to walk over and at least make an attempt to smooth out the furrows on Grantaire's brow.

“What?” Grantaire blinked at him, surprised, and then shook his head. “No one. That was...” He waved his phone vaguely. “Doesn't matter. Has Ferre gone to bed already? I was going to ask him if he could ask around if there's any takers for picking me up from the airport, which I know is technically my job – the asking, I mean – but I'm having some trouble communicating these days. Well, with anyone other than the oafs that think it's okay to call when I'm three countries away, at least.”

At least he now had an opportunity for a smooth transition, Enjolras thought, bitter at the less than small mercy this offered. “About that,” he said. There was no way around it; he'd have to dive in at the deep end. “Listen, I – there's something I need to ask.”

* * *

Grantaire stumbled out of Enjolras' dorm building about an hour later, already deep in denial of everything that had just happened. He stood on the pavement before the front door for a good minute, hoping some fresh air would clear his head, but it was mid-June, and he was standing on a stuffed street, and the air wasn't fresh, it was thick and uncomfortably warm and, if anything, made him feel more cluttered.

He was always going to say yes, really. It had been clear before Enjolras had asked, before he'd even gotten a chance to consider it. “I need a favour,” Enjolras had said, and Grantaire had replied, “Sure, anything” without thinking. It was an instinctive reaction, an immediate reflex, and a few years ago, that might have terrified him, but that sort of anxiety had gotten too exhausting to maintain long ago.

It was a big favour, Enjolras had gone on to say, and then elaborated on how Combeferre had driven to Bergen in his car and they had planned to go back in it together, only now that Combeferre had had to fly home early because of the emergency at the clinic, they were left without a driver because Enjolras, as anyone remotely familiar with him knew, did not drive. Grantaire hadn't pointed out that no one really seemed to know _why_ Enjolras didn't drive, because he did have his licence – Courfeyrac had shown it around at a meeting once to tease Enjolras about the time before he had started wearing contacts. Grantaire remembered that picture well; Enjolras with large, black-framed glasses and a stern look on his face, terribly serious for a seventeen-year-old.

After Enjolras had finished his long and drawn-out talk on all the difficulties and complications of the situation, Grantaire's answer remained the same. “Yeah, sure, I'll do it.” He'd even added a shrug for emphasis. “Why wouldn't I?” The nonchalance had almost been sincere; it wasn't an insurmountable task. Well, not really, anyway, unless he was being dramatic. Which, granted, he had a tendency to be.

They had decided to meet again tomorrow to talk specifics – come up with a route, somehow try to settle on a budget, start making the first arrangements for accommodation. They had checked a vague route online already, and according to Google Maps, it would take them a minimum of 24 hours of driving to make it from Bergen to Paris. Grantaire had insisted that he wouldn't need more than one overnight stay for that, and Enjolras had declared him delusional.

Grantaire turned around to blink at the house once more. Norwegian student housing, from what he'd seen of it, was a lot nicer than the French variant. Enjolras' dorm was in a large, white town house with red shutters at the windows, the kind that, in Paris, would cost a monthly rent of Grantaire's yearly income.

The good thing – possibly the best thing – about the dorm was, right now, that the sea was nearby. Grantaire could smell it from where he was standing, the salty tinge of it carried over by the breeze. After almost a week here, Grantaire knew his way around quite well; there wasn't a lot to know. Bergen wasn't exactly a megacity. Not that he was complaining, after all, he had originally intended to come here for the scenery. The bitter irony of the fact that all his equipment remained buried at the very bottom of his duffel bag even after this almost-week didn't escape him, but he tried not to dwell on it. It wasn't like he didn't have enough other things to be bitter about now.

Eager to avoid the hostel and not really drawn in by any of the bars and cafés he came across, Grantaire made for the harbour. There was something reassuring about watching freighters come in, watching people hurry to help with the docking, seeing different cargo boats take off to who-knew-where. Grantaire sat at the edge of the water and smoked, watching the port and waiting for his mind to settle, but after a long while and far too many cigarettes, he accepted that it wasn't going to happen.

He couldn't tell why he made such a big deal out of it, really. It wasn't. The whole thing was pretty straightforward: Grantaire would cancel his flight, originally set for two days from now, then he'd move into Combeferre's now-empty dorm room to bridge the time between the end of his hostel reservation and the day they'd leave, and Enjolras would wrap up his (and Combeferre's, seeing as he wasn't there to do it himself) semester abroad at breakneck speed, and then they'd drive for maybe three days and be back in Paris. He told himself that it would probably be over in a wink, no funny business, no surprises, no complications. Definitely no Enjolras'-proximity-related meltdowns on his part.

His mood was terrible now. He thought the sea might help, and he was reasonably certain that he was better off with the company of several cargo ships than with whatever was expecting him back at the hostel, but still, he was suddenly feeling melancholic. Instinctively, he wanted to text Bossuet, to see if he could get a joke or an anecdote out of him, but he remembered the fees on texting abroad and how Bossuet could probably afford them less than him, and decided against it. He wondered, now, what had made him think it would be a good idea to travel alone like this, because being away from the others wasn't doing him much good so far. It had still been okay while Combeferre had been here, Combeferre with his clever eyes, Combeferre who always knew to slip him a cough drop or some gum at the right moment. Feeling edgy around him was only possible when you'd gotten on his bad side, which Grantaire avoided with some expertise these days.

He only left for the hostel once the sun had set completely, and the air had become too chilly for him to linger in just a t-shirt and cargo shorts. That was what the hostel was, sort of a last resort when literally every other option had been exhausted. Grantaire was reminded of why when he got back to the four-bed-room, because the couple was already there, sharing the lower bunk of their bed, and the Portuguese senior citizen gave Grantaire a sympathetic look over the edge of his bed when he walked in.

Enjolras had suggested Grantaire move into Combeferre's room earlier to spare himself the trouble – “Today, if you'd like, I don't know why we didn't think of it earlier” – but Grantaire was going to have to pay for the hostel room anyway, and he didn't admit that part to Enjolras, but as long as it was possible, he wanted to keep what distance he could.

 

They met up the next day, and Grantaire thought that all things considered (“all things,” in this case, meaning his inability to deal with this situation and Enjolras' rather obvious complete exhaustion), they managed to come up with a route quite quickly. From Bergen, they'd make their way south-east down to the border, where they'd take a ferry to Hirtshals, Denmark, then continue south and cross the border to Germany, pass Cologne, cross into Belgium, and finally make it to France. If they managed to drive nine or ten hours a day, they'd need two overnight stays, and for those, they tentatively settled on one in Denmark and one in Germany, close to the Belgian border. In Grantaire's experience, those plans never worked out anyway – there'd be a traffic jam or an unscheduled irregularity with the ferries and they'd be held up, or maybe, by some miracle, they might hit every single green light and make it further than planned on the first day. The whims of traffic had a tendency to laugh at any attempt at planning overnight stays, and Grantaire knew that pretty much rendered them useless. Enjolras seemed happier with pinning them down, though, so he didn't object.

It was one of the things Enjolras did to feel at ease, Grantaire noticed, being overly fastidious about planning ahead. Thinking about it now, it probably made a lot of sense, and Grantaire couldn't tell why he found it so frustrating to see. Enjolras was always intense, but in the last few days, since Combeferre had left, he'd been so tense and strained Grantaire worried he might snap in half. His presence probably hadn't helped with that, but it had also felt wrong not to stick around, annoyed at his attempts at being helpful as Enjolras might have been. Partly, he was glad to have found a way of being helpful after all, even if Enjolras had probably spent a considerable amount of time arguing with Combeferre about this solution before submitting to Combeferre's pragmatism. At least Enjolras had one less thing to worry about now, and for Grantaire, it didn't seem like a particularly big sacrifice.

But then, as Joly had once informed him, he was a “shitty judge of proportion,” so there was that.

He moved into Combeferre's room the day after that, in sort of a cloak-and-dagger-operation, because leaving your dorm room to a random friend who happened to be rolling through town after you'd fled the country on emergency notice was apparently not allowed, and Grantaire couldn't help but find it hilarious that he now had to serve as a shitty placeholder for Combeferre to the point of impersonating him. Enjolras, as far as Grantaire could tell, was doing the same, handing in papers that Combeferre e-mailed him, and even taking one of his exams in his stead. (Enjolras said the class was similar to one he'd taken before, so it wasn't a big deal, and Grantaire had to bite back an immediate sarcastic comment on Enjolras' more godlike qualities. It would have been a terrible attempt at masking his genuine amazement at the stunts Enjolras' brain seemed to be able to pull.)

 

The afternoon before they were supposed to leave, Enjolras barged into Grantaire's – well, Combeferre's – room after knocking energetically and not waiting for a response. “We've had a parcel.”

Grantaire, sitting on the bed and flicking through Norwegian news channels on the ancient tube TV next to the dresser, frowned. “Sorry – we?”

“It's addressed to both of us, three guesses who it's from.”

Grantaire didn't get to guess, because Enjolras dropped the parcel on the mattress in front of him and frowned down at Grantaire like he might be part of some dubious, parcel-related plot against him.

The package was wrapped in brown paper, and Grantaire recognised Cosette's handwriting instantly. No one looped the L quite like her.

“You didn't open it,” Grantaire noted.

“Should I have?”

“Uh. I don't know? Do you think it's likely to explode in our face?”

“It's from Cosette,” Enjolras said, as if Cosette wasn't arguably the most mischievous one among their friends.

“Then let's do this.” Grantaire tugged the parcel closer and slid a finger underneath the fold of the paper, pulling to undo the tape that held it together. Enjolras unfolded the paper once he could, revealing what must have been an abnormally large shoe box before it was recycled like this. The lid had been painted over with white, and then provided with swirly blue lettering that read _Road Trip Essentials_. Grantaire bit his lip to conceal a smile. Of course she would.

None of them dared move to lift the lid for a few seconds, then Enjolras reached out and took it off, his expression tortured. They had to remove a layer of crumpled newspaper, and Grantaire almost gasped out loud.

“No way,” he said, reaching inside the box. “I can't believe they dug this thing up. They broke into my fucking flat; I'm never giving out a key again.”

“One of your cameras?” Enjolras assumed, and Grantaire shook his head in disbelief. He had buried that thing so deep – on purpose, because it was a flea market impulse buy (those were never good), and the entire concept of it was a downer.

“It's a polaroid camera,” he said, turning it in his hands, the cool metal edges feeling unfamiliar. “I bought it on a whim and fixed it up, but it's still trash. The pictures come out and look great, so you think you've won, and two months later, they're pretty much completely faded. It's like an instrument of torture; I mean, who wants a constant omnia vanitas looming over their work?”

“Jehan,” Enjolras said, eyeing the camera not without suspicion. “That sounds exactly like something Jehan would love.”

“But I didn't even realise he knew I had this. I don't remember telling him, the others wouldn't have had a way of knowing. Unless...” Grantaire glanced inside the box, and his suspicions were confirmed: two packets of films were nestled between more newspaper, and the films were the next reason Grantaire had left this camera to gather dust. For this particular model, they were incredibly hard to track down, and so expensive it would be hilarious if it wasn't downright depressing. The only one who would know both that these films were needed and where to get them was Feuilly. “I think we're looking at a group project here.”

“I was about to say the same thing,” Enjolras said, holding up a pink plastic pocket with several CDs in it. He tapped his finger against the writing on the transparency. “ _Courfeyrac's Jam for the Road_ ,” he read, in a tone that had Grantaire clench his jaw to avoid cracking up.

Carefully unpacking item after item, they found that the box also held a glue stick, some masking tape, and a notebook (the pretty, expensive kind – it must have been a donation from Cosette; she was known for never messing around when it came to office supplies) with a letter tucked between the pages. The furrow on Enjolras' brow stayed there as he read.

“We're supposed to scrapbook the trip,” he said, still reading. Grantaire shrugged, because, well, duh. The parcel was pretty much a scrapbooking starter kit. “They've...” Enjolras trailed off, slowly shaking his head. “What do they think this is, some cross-European road trip adventure?”

“Well, it definitely has the _potential_ to be,” Grantaire said. He was suddenly all kinds of charmed with the idea – if this wasn't a business-like, red-eye, three-espressos-for-breakfast-thing, it would be a lot less intimidating. Maybe he'd even be able to stop watching his own step like a hawk around Enjolras, and the creative slump he'd been in might be eased by getting back into that leisurely road trip feeling he still remembered from travelling with Feuilly.

Enjolras was looking at him as if he'd suggested going back to Paris by jet pack. “Grantaire,” he said. It was really all he needed to say.

“Hey, I'm not the one who brought it up,” Grantaire said, waving his hand like he hadn't only just temporarily clutched onto his friends' idea like a lifeline. “We don't have to make it an adventure. In fact, we still have time to send this thoughtful, sweetly put-together gift right back to our friends so it doesn't, y'know. Weigh us down on the drive.”

“You're twisting my words.” Enjolras looked tired, his fingers tangled in his hair as he propped himself up on his elbow. It was a constant back-and-forth for Grantaire, talking to him – he was so aware he was screwing up, and he acted like an asshole anyway. To say that he was helpless to prevent it was a cheap excuse, but he really did feel subject to his own big mouth a lot of the time. “I'm not trying to ruin anything, I just...” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “I want to get home.”

Grantaire wanted to smack himself. “Shit,” he said, because having messed up made him eloquent. “Look, we're going to be back in no time, yeah? And we can take pictures for the others whenever we stop to get gas or happen to pass through a town or something. It doesn't have to be, like, _Little Miss Sunshine, Reprise_. I was being a dick.” He shrugged helplessly when Enjolras frowned at him. “You know, as I do.”

“I don't want to be a buzzkill,” Enjolras said. “I know I'm already the personified opposite of fun to you, probably, but this is just – things have been really stressful, and I'm tired of exciting things. Of any kind. At least for now.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded. “I get it. Honestly, it's fine. We can even make it a deal, if you like – no detours, just straight home. Shake hands on it.”

Enjolras eyed him sceptically. Grantaire felt like he never really stopped frowning these days. “All right,” he said finally and extended a hand. “Straight home, no detours.”

Grantaire cracked a smile, taking the hand that was offered. “A gentlemen's agreement.”

 

Combeferre's car was ridiculous. Grantaire had found it ridiculous for as long as he'd known Combeferre, not because it was in itself ridiculous, but because Combeferre looked completely comical when he was anywhere near it. The first time Grantaire had happened to be there to see Combeferre getting into the small, silver New Beetle and drive off with it, he'd been half-sure that he'd just witnessed a car theft, because the car was so profoundly wrong for him. It was a convertible, too – exactly the kind of car that Cosette or Courfeyrac might sell their souls for, and that Bahorel wouldn't be caught dead in.

As Grantaire and Enjolras tried to load everything that had to come along to France into the tiny space of the backseat and the trunk, Grantaire mainly found the car ridiculous because it was definitely unsuited for crossing long distances with a lot of baggage, which was exactly what they intended. They had to improvise to get everything packed, which was how Enjolras ended up with a suitcase in his footwell, and why Grantaire wouldn't be able to turn and check the blind spot before changing lanes, because the back window was completely obstructed by heaps of luggage.

“Right,” Grantaire said once they were both in their seats and Enjolras had triple-checked everything on his list. “Ready to say goodbye to your five-months-home?”

“I was ready two weeks ago,” Enjolras murmured, although Grantaire thought he caught him sneak one last, almost sentimental glance at the dorm building. “Let's get going.”

“Got it.” Grantaire twisted the key. “Here's to the most boring cross-European road trip ever. No detours.”

“Straight home,” Enjolras echoed, and Grantaire allowed his look to linger on him for a second as Enjolras leaned against the window and closed his eyes. Then, he pulled off the curb, trying desperately not to think of anything but keeping his eyes on the road.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, the whole starting situation of this is super inspired by [Amy and Roger's Epic Detour](https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/7664334-amy-and-roger-s-epic-detour), because straight white YA is completely unapologetic in its use of romantic tropes, and that's sort of amazing? If you happen to have a similar guilty pleasure and you've read the book, you'll know that the scrapbooking happens, and it's sort of semi-integral to the story. It didn't make sense for the first chapter, but I'll be making scrapbook page edits for the upcoming chapters, because why not.  
> Come talk to me [on tumblr](http://lesamis.tumblr.com/) if you like!! And thank you for reading. ♥


	2. Bergen - Hardangervidda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Against all the best intentions, a detour happens (or, if Enjolras is to be believed, not a detour, but a minor delay).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are what gets me through the Monday morning Shakespeare class; thank you for those as well. ♥

In the last few days before they left, Enjolras had exchanged far more panicked texts with Feuilly than was necessary. They all fell into the same pattern, which was Feuilly replying to everything Enjolras said with _R is the safest driver I know, please relax_ and Enjolras consequently trying to do just that. He trusted Feuilly's judgement, and it was anything but fair to Grantaire to fuss over his (completely speculative – Enjolras had never even sat in a car driven by Grantaire) subpar driving skills when Grantaire was suspending his stay in a country that bored him just to drive Enjolras back home.

And Grantaire's driving was fine – it really was. Not that Enjolras had been able to form much of an opinion in the twenty minutes it had taken them to get out of town to find a gas station with reasonable prices and a supermarket, but so far, Grantaire was quite the model driver, never coming close to tailgating, slowing down to twenty or less before every turn, and overly careful about checking the mirrors. Enjolras couldn't imagine he was always like this, but if Grantaire was being especially cautious, he wasn't going to complain.

Grantaire was waiting in the car, humming to himself when Enjolras opened the passenger side door. His eyes practically lit up at seeing that Enjolras had been successful – “You actually got some! Thanks, I thought I was going to have to face withdrawal 2.0 on the drive.”

Enjolras handed over the six pack of iced tea that Grantaire had so explicitly asked for and that he'd just spent an absurd amount of money on. “You can't honestly be that excited about this.”

“Oh, I can,” Grantaire said with a warning expression. “Some of us need sugar and artificial flavours to survive.” He caught a glance of what else Enjolras had bought before he could sneak it into his bag – granola bars, bottled water, and a pad of number puzzles. “Seriously?”

Enjolras sighed and tucked his feet against the bag in his footwell, buckling up. “What have I done now that's so incredulous?”

“Are you going to sudoku your way through the next seventy-two hours?”

“I can't do crosswords in Norwegian,” Enjolras said, shrugging. So sue him, he liked riddles.

“I've never understood why people do that,” Grantaire said, pulling a face as he started up the engine again. “Use numbers as a fun activity.”

“Well, sudoku isn't really about the numbers,” Enjolras argued. “You could make them nine different shapes, or letters.”

“Why don't they? It'd salvage the entire thing.”

“I'm not sure,” Enjolras said. “They need you to focus on the puzzle itself, and most people are already familiar with numbers as a system. It would become a lot more difficult if you'd had to memorise a new series of nine different, say, silhouettes.”

“So it _is_ about the numbers.”

“Are you really going to play devil's advocate with this? Of all things?”

Grantaire grinned. “I thought maybe you'd missed that about me.”

Enjolras, heroically, did not roll his eyes.

“I'm just saying,” Grantaire continued, “I'd never touch those things, and I kind of like riddles. They've lost me forever as a potential customer.”

“Didn't you have to turn left just then?”

“What?” Grantaire blinked and twisted around to look behind them. “Ah. I'm driving back to where we came from, aren't I.”

“I think so. You can turn over there.”

It had taken them about two minutes of driving to figure out that Grantaire had a terrible sense of direction. (Obviously, Grantaire had known before, but he hadn't thought to mention it.) Their route was straightforward enough, so Enjolras hoped that it wouldn't be much of a problem, but he didn't mind playing the navigator.

They were back on the main road after ten minutes of taking wrong turns and misreading road signs. The road was still clear – they had left from the dorm early – and Enjolras thought it looked almost peaceful like this, circumscribed by rocky slopes and winding between the hills.

“I took a picture of the gas station, by the way.” Grantaire nodded to the small pocket below the radio. “Thought we'd just keep them in the envelope, unless you get tired of boxes and numbers and want to get crafty somewhere along the line.”

Enjolras opened the envelope, and the picture slid into his palm. It was almost square, far thicker than printed or developed photos, and looked a little out of place, like it was already old. “Gas stations never look good,” he noted, disgruntled. “Cosette is going to murder us if we bring back fifty pictures of different gas stations.” He could already picture it, her icy glare and power-stance. _I didn't spend twenty euros on an express mail parcel so you could document the development of petrol vendors in northern Europe_ , she'd say, or at least something similar. He felt a pull in his chest when he thought about it. It really was time to get home.

“Yeah, well,” Grantaire said tersely. “It's not like we've got a particularly scenic route planned, as far as I can tell, so she's going to have to prepare for disappointment.”

“We're in Norway. Every route is scenic,” Enjolras replied, slipping the picture back into the envelope. He put the receipt from the supermarket in as well and tucked it back into the shell below the radio. Very nearly, he managed to bite back the next thing he said. “You'd know that if you'd ever left the house in Bergen.”

He really _should_ have managed to bite it back. Grantaire looked annoyed, his eyebrows pulled together. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“I don't know,” Enjolras said sincerely. It had been eating at him, especially after asking Grantaire to drive him. The guy hadn't even had a decent holiday, and now he was more than a week late with his return home – it didn't sit right with Enjolras, and he had told Combeferre as much. Combeferre, in turn, had told him that Grantaire was an adult that could be trusted with making that kind of choice for himself. Which might be true, only that Grantaire wasn't exactly known for making good choices when it came to his own wellbeing. (He wondered if that assessment was unfair, now that Grantaire had been sober for over a year. There were many ways of being unkind to oneself.) “I probably would, if you actually gave me a reason, but you never did. Was everything all right? ... _Is_ everything all right?”

Grantaire gave him an odd look, and Enjolras resisted the urge to tell him to keep his eyes on the road. “Why would you ask me that?”

“Am I overstepping here? You don't have to tell me anything, if that's—”

“No,” Grantaire said, looking forward again. “It's not that. Just... I don't know. You've got your own stuff to worry about, I guess.” He smiled. “Plus, we've only been driving for, like, thirty minutes. Little early to get into that 'long drive, deep conversations'-mood.”

“Oh.” Enjolras frowned. “I didn't know that was a thing.”

“Yeah, I figured.” Grantaire shook his head, still grinning. “Have you ever travelled for leisure in your life? At all?”

Enjolras decided that insisting that he'd been the one to ask questions not a minute earlier was pointless. If Grantaire ever wanted to talk, he would – that was likely the best he could hope for. “Of course I have.”

“Family vacations don't count.”

“Why not?”

“Because they're not fun. They're obligatory and annoying and remind people why they don't spend more time together. What I mean is, have you ever actually travelled somewhere just for the sake of it, and _enjoyed_ that? You know, really enjoyed?”

“Why does that matter?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I don't know. It felt less wrong making this the most efficient Norway-France trip the world has ever seen when I thought you'd actually had the full odyssey experience before. Think about it, we're going through, what, five countries total? And we're hardly even going to notice that, because we'll never leave the car.”

Enjolras said nothing. Grantaire wasn't wrong – Enjolras wanted to go home, he was desperate to go home, but he'd considered the other side as well, the fact that they'd actually go quite a long way and gain as good as nothing from it. A very small part of him, a barely audible voice at the back of his mind, told him that it was a wasted opportunity, but it was the same part that tended to insist that he sleep in past nine, or order a caramel macchiato instead of his usual espresso. He was so good at ignoring that voice that he was quite confident barely anyone knew it existed.

“All right, I'll shut up now,” Grantaire said, misinterpreting the silence for annoyance. “Sorry. We have a deal, and I'm honouring it. Promise.”

If Enjolras had been able to think of something to say that would soften the tone of the conversation a little, he would have. He was good at that kind of thing, normally. “You know,” he said instead, “I was actually kind of apprehensive about Courfeyrac's mix, but it's good so far. He must have really meant well.”

Courfeyrac had a great taste of music, but he hardly ever used those powers to do good. The playlist on the CD titled “Norway”, however, was perfect for the road, and according to its tracklist was composed of titles exclusively by Norwegian artists.

Grantaire looked surprised for a moment, then he shrugged. “I guess he can be merciful, on occasion.” He turned the volume up, and they didn't talk for a while.

The landscape changed around them, the longer they drove. The mountains became higher, the slopes to the side of the road seemed to fall away as the road shrunk from three lanes on each side to two, then to one. Enjolras barely noticed the gradual change, keeping busy with his sudoku and with jotting down the occasional title of a song he liked.

When they'd been driving for almost two hours, there were no more road markings, and their route seemed increasingly lonely. The last bit of civilisation, Enjolras was quite sure, they had passed at least twenty minutes ago.

“Are you sure we're still on track?” Grantaire said, narrowing his eyes to read a road sign ahead. “Do you also sort of feel like we travelled in time? If there were, like, forty Vikings dragging a longship to shore around the next bend, I wouldn't even bat an eyelash.”

“I think you would,” Enjolras said, but other than that, Grantaire was right. The road itself being cement seemed like the only indication that this was the twenty-first century, but then, they were supposed to go through some stretches off the larger roads. “Hang on.”

He grabbed the road map from where he'd tucked it into the lining of the door and tried to trace their route so far. “We went off the E39 at...?”

“Asane,” Grantaire said. Enjolras ran a finger along the road on the map.

“And we switched to the E16, we were following that until...”

“Something with T? Tenger- Trenge- well, it definitely had a T.”

“Trengereid.” Enjolras nodded. “That's right, though. We've been following the 7 since then, so we should be headed for a place called Norheimsund now.”

“Okay. Uh, how sure are you?”

“Sure enough.” Enjolras smoothed the map out in his lap. “I can read a map, Grantaire. Have some faith.”

Grantaire snorted.

“There's going to be a fjord there, too,” Enjolras added. “So. Scenery.”

That was part of the reason he'd picked the route like this. Technically they both had, but Enjolras may have thrown in one or two arguments in this route's favour. At the time, he'd told himself it was to indulge in this just once, seeing as he hadn't really taken time to appreciate the country itself while he was studying there. Now, he saw Grantaire smile earnestly at the prospect, and wondered how he'd ever fooled himself into thinking this was just about his own gratification.

Norheimsund, when they finally reached it, turned out to be tiny, more village than town, but it was lively and, to Enjolras' surprise, full of tourists. “I keep forgetting,” he murmured as they passed about what felt like the seventh crowded lay-by, full of family cars with roof boxes. “Summer holidays.”

“Forgetting it's summer,” Grantaire said, shaking his head. “I can't even say I'm surprised. There's the national park here too, though, right?” He added the last part before Enjolras could be offended at the first one. “They're probably headed there.”

“Right,” Enjolras remembered. “Hardangervidda, was it?” They'd only skirt the national park's edges if they stuck to the route, even though it was huge enough to be difficult to avoid when you were trying to make your way to the south coast. “I think Combeferre went there, once. It was a week-end trip to the Nature Centre, the Natural Sciences faculty organised it. We'd only been here for a few weeks, and he came back with a bag of rocks that he claimed were fascinating, and twenty-five new friends. He was lucky that way, it gave him such an easy start.”

“Because he bonded with people over rocks,” Grantaire said. “Amazing.”

“He bonded with people, period,” Enjolras said, and felt Grantaire's look on him afterwards. “Eyes on the road.”

Grantaire obliged him. “Why didn't you go?”

“Combeferre and I share a lot of things, but not his love of geology,” Enjolras replied easily, as if that had played any role at all. “I was still trying to settle in, I suppose.”

Grantaire hummed, but he didn't seem satisfied.

They crossed a long bridge that took them out of Norheimsund, and the road stuck persistently to the coast, leading them along the edge of the fjord which, Enjolras had been right, was beautiful. It looked like an entire world compressed into one narrow slice of horizon, the mountains towering over the stretch of water, a pure blue with white ripples that glittered as the light played on the waves. Enjolras could see them breaking on the edge of stone right next to the road, white crowns appearing for a moment before they were swallowed up by a swirl of blue and black.

“Pull over,” Enjolras said, without consciously choosing to.

“You okay?”

“What? Sure, I just—” He turned back to the window. “Look, there's a lay-by. We could have a break?”

Grantaire said nothing, but there was the hint of a smile on his lips as he pulled into the turnout.

“We can't just drive by this,” Enjolras said, gesturing at the view at large, and Grantaire's smile widened into a grin.

“Do you hear me complaining?” Grantaire put on the handbrake. “That was nice. Kind of romantic, even, in the poetic sense? 'Stop the car, I'm overwhelmed by nature, it's an emergency.'”

Enjolras decided not to dignify that with an answer and instead opened the door to slide out of the passenger's seat, glad to feel solid ground under his feet again. The air was different here than it had been in Bergen, less stuffy, somehow cleaner, the salt of the sea without the fumes from cars. Enjolras took a moment to inhale deeply, and against his will, his eyes slid shut.

Something poked his arm and he opened his eyes to see Grantaire offering him a granola bar, his smile softer now. “Late breakfast?”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said and watched as Grantaire made his way down the steady descent to the water. He had the bottle of sweet tea in one hand, his camera in the other, balancing himself that way, and for an odd moment, Enjolras found it difficult to look away.

He followed, sitting cross-legged on a patch of grass next to Grantaire, who was drawing patterns into the gravel with the tip of his shoe.

“I love this kind of thing,” Grantaire said, blinking at the sun as he rolled the bottle between his palms. “Did you know it's legal to camp anywhere here? Everyman's right. If you're going somewhere, anywhere at all, you can just bring your tent and stay the night, as long as you keep a certain distance to houses and so on.”

Enjolras took a bite of his granola bar – it had dried berries that tasted sour, and he found himself wishing he'd gone for the chocolate option. “Is that what you did in Australia?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, smiling. “It was illegal in some places, but, like, what else were we supposed to do? We slept in the back of the car, so I don't even think it counted as camping. Extended parking, maybe. With a car we happened to be sleeping in.”

Enjolras shook his head slowly. The ripple of the water before them was calm, and that drew him in; he could feel the tension from the past few weeks fade just as they sat here. “I don't know why you talk like I'm missing out on something phenomenal when I've never slept in the back of a car.”

“Because it _was_ phenomenal. And I never use words like that.”

“I don't see the appeal.”

“Of course you don't. You're in a compact car with me, and I was in a station wagon with Feuilly, there's worlds between that.” He made a short gesture with both hands, pretending to weigh both options out. “Plus, no offence, but you have, like, the capacity to relax of a squirrel.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “Squirrel?”

“They're nervous animals.”

“They hibernate. They literally spend months relaxing.”

Grantaire looked at him, startled, and then he laughed. “Okay, yeah. Point taken.”

The silence was comfortable between them now, more so than it had been in the car. Grantaire was looking over the water, the breeze lifting his curls and making him huddle into his sweater. Enjolras was wearing a t-shirt and he wasn't cold – Grantaire almost always wore layers, a ridiculous amount of them. Once, at an outdoor concert a few months back, Enjolras had seen him offer his hoodie to a shivering Jehan, only to take it off and reveal another one underneath.

On a whim, Enjolras broke what was left of his granola bar in two pieces and held the larger one out to Grantaire. Grantaire frowned at him, and Enjolras shrugged. “I just realised I hate cloudberries.”

“But you bought these.”

“I'm fallible.”

Grantaire laughed again, which Enjolras booked as a success. “Honest question?” Grantaire asked after one bite.

“Hm?”

“The way you were the last two weeks, ever since I got here.” He wasn't looking at Enjolras. “Were you like that all semester?”

Enjolras leaned forward, grabbing his own ankles. He knew what this was referring to, but so far, he hadn't thought Grantaire had even noticed. “Like what?”

“Oh, please. You were more taut than a bowstring, like, out-of-the-ordinary tense. And that's saying something, with you.”

Reluctantly, Enjolras started chewing on the rest of the cereal bar, just to buy time. “It's just been stressful,” he said. “I told you that.”

“But have the past few weeks been stressful, or the past few months?”

Enjolras pulled a face. “Both.”

“Jesus.” Grantaire shook his head. “What a nightmare.”

“Why? It doesn't matter now.” It really didn't, he noticed only as he said it. For the first time in weeks, there wasn't actually anything terrible or stressful ahead – the bureaucracy of the Erasmus office, and his final exams, and the preparation for getting back to Paris, all of that was behind him, and his internship wasn't starting until mid-July. It was a huge weight off his back, even though he hadn't taken time to appreciate that so far.

“Of course it does,” Grantaire said, back to being discontented. “The others would have sent you, like, twenty care packages if they'd known you were out of your mind with stress.”

“But I wasn't.”

“If what I've seen is any indication, you absolutely were. Come on, like Combeferre hasn't called you out on that at least once while you were here.”

Enjolras didn't reply.

“That's a yes,” Grantaire inferred. “I'll tell him to make you take a day off and go to a spa or something when we're back home.”

“A spa?”

“Or, I don't know, do some heavy political reading? Whatever you normally do to relax.”

“You're blowing this out of proportion,” Enjolras said, just as he'd told Combeferre. “I'm used to large workloads, I can handle them – and again, it doesn't matter, because the semester's over. I'm relaxed now, aren't I?”

Grantaire scoffed. “Eating a granola bar you hate in what happens to be nice scenery doesn't count as recreation.”

“All right, then,” Enjolras said, more sharply than he meant to, “what would you have me do?”

“Hm.” Grantaire tilted his head, putting some effort into looking contemplative. “Stop at the national park with me, have a hike, spend the night there, drive on tomorrow.”

Enjolras watched him, as always, trying to size him up and failing. Grantaire didn't mean it, he rarely ever meant anything, but the suggestion flipped a switch in Enjolras, and there it was, that familiar feeling of having something to prove and little to lose that had been there for pretty much every rash decision he'd made in his life. “Fine.”

Grantaire's head snapped up at that. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“You're kidding.”

“Exactly what I'm known for,” Enjolras said dryly.

“Seemed more likely than you actually meaning it,” Grantaire said. “Enjolras, you were the one who wanted to get home as quickly as possible. You can't seriously agree to making a day-long stop along the way just to spite me.”

“How would it be me trying to spite you when you suggested it?”

“Somehow!” Grantaire waved a hand. “The point is you don't actually want this. I talk shit all the time, I didn't mean to goad you into agreeing to some bullshit suggestion I threw out there.”

“I don't let myself be _goaded_ into things I don't want,” Enjolras said, almost indignant at the implication. “Do you have an actual objection to this? If not, we should try figuring out a new route.”

Grantaire stared at him now, his eyes unreadable. Finally, he looked away, running both hands over his eyes. “Yeah, okay.”

“You're sure?”

Grantaire shrugged. The ironic twist to his smile was back. “Sure. I mean, you weren't wrong, I did suggest it. And I'm always up for spontaneous, obstinacy-induced diversions.”

“Great,” Enjolras said in a flat tone, ignoring the jab. He got to his feet. “Break's over, then.”

 

They had the road map between them, spread over the gap between the seats. “I think we'll be fine if we stay on the rv7,” Enjolras said, tapping his finger against the spot where the road they were currently on hit the edge of the park. “The Nature Centre that Combeferre went to is at Eidfjord, if we don't come across anything else, we could just look for accommodation there.”

“Right.” Grantaire lifted the map to release the handbrake. “Go straight on for two hours, then; I should be able to manage that.”

Enjolras was lost in thought while they drove, but he didn't miss the way Grantaire kept glancing at him with an unnerving frequency. If Enjolras had thrown him off a little, there was nothing to be done about it now – even if Grantaire had demanded more explanations on Enjolras' change of heart, Enjolras wasn't sure he could have given them. He couldn't really justify before himself where the sudden impulse had come from, if it was actually about seeing a different side to the country he'd spent so much time in without really getting to know it, if it was about proving a point, if it had to do something with the way Grantaire had seemed momentarily disappointed about missing out on the full road trip experience. As long as Grantaire didn't press for an explanation, Enjolras didn't have to figure it out.

They reached the national park after one more hour of driving, and not ten minutes later, the first directions to camp sites and cabins came up on the roadside. Prompted by the earlier reminder of how inconvenient their timing was in looking for accommodations, they stopped at each one, and promptly received rebuffs at just as many.

“I was so wrong when I said odyssey earlier,” Grantaire said as they got back into the car after the fifth negative reply. “We're Joseph and Mary, only not a couple and without the whole baby stuff. Maybe if one of us _was_ pregnant, we'd have it easier.”

Enjolras pulled a face. “Everything about that simile is wrong,” he said. “Some place around here has to have a vacancy. We just have to keep trying.”

“Ever the optimist,” Grantaire sighed. “You realise we might end up having to sleep in the car?”

“Thinking back to your earlier enthusiasm, that'd just mean one more thing off my bucket list,” Enjolras said, his sarcasm mixing with genuine horror at the thought. He liked to think that he didn't have very high demands, but falling asleep had been difficult enough lately, so he'd like a mattress at least if there was any way of acquiring one.

They hadn't been back on the road for five minutes when Grantaire suddenly slapped the steering wheel and slowed down. “Shit. Did you see that?”

“What?”

In the middle of the road, he started manoeuvring to turn the car around, and Enjolras closed his eyes. “The sign at the edge of the road? I think I just saved the day.”

He'd turned around completely and drove back, then turning left into a side street Enjolras hadn't noticed before.

“See?” Grantaire slowed again and pointed to a wooden sign that looked hand-painted. “I have such a good feeling about this place.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at the sign. “Why?”

“Because it looks like someone tried to write 'pancake' in Middle English, which, by my best guess, means pancake in Norwegian,” Grantaire said. “They're advertising themselves as a Bed & Breakfast, plus pancake restaurant. Fate denied us a room at all the other places because she wanted to lead us here.”

He wasn't wrong in at least one respect; the sign read _Bed & Breakfast – Pannekaker_, which was self-explanatory enough, and after driving only a few metres down a gravel path, the house itself came into view. With its white wood panels and blue window frames, it seemed oddly marine to Enjolras, and looked out of place like this, surrounded by pine trees and green hills. There were several cabins along the driveway, and some more, as a sign informed them, behind the main house.

“They have a vacancy,” Grantaire said with a confidence that Enjolras saw no reason for. “How much are we betting?”

“Just the honour,” Enjolras replied and swung the passenger side door open. Grantaire, who had seemed to oscillate between being irritated and concerned on their drive here, looked happier as they walked to the main house, as if the promise of pancakes was enough to salvage anything.

Enjolras was sure that there was a good joke somewhere in the fact that Grantaire's optimism, by some miracle, paid off. The receptionist informed them in deliberately slow Norwegian (Enjolras felt a misplaced pride at understanding her) that they were in luck, because a couple meant to check in that day had cancelled a few hours earlier. “We get that a lot, cancellations the same day,” she said, not taking her eyes off the computer screen in front of her. “It's the park. People get caught up, decide to stay longer in one place, don't bother that it'll make them late for the next...”

Grantaire, incredibly smug about his hunch being right, gave Enjolras a malicious smile once he'd translated. “Fascinating,” he said in English, and the receptionist gave him the glare that deserved.

They were assigned one of the cabins, which, as they were assured, had twin beds. Bathrooms were communal in the basement of the main house, and that part began to worry Enjolras when they'd been walking for five minutes and still not arrived at their cabin. “I didn't think there even were that many,” he said, turning over the key with the small engraving of their cabin number – 18 – in his hand.

“Okay, it's giving off sort of a murder-y impression,” Grantaire conceded with a quick gesture at the row of cabins to their right and the deep woods to their left. “But to be fair, a lot of places in Scandinavia do. I could never tell if I only think that because so many crime writers come from around here, or if so many crime writers come from around here because it's true.”

“Eighteen,” Enjolras said; he'd been busy scanning the numbers on the cabins. “Over there.”

The cabins were all the same size, Enjolras estimated about the size of his bedroom back home, and the first thing that Enjolras noticed on walking in was that they seemed even smaller from the inside. The first thing that Grantaire noticed, apparently, was that their twin beds were more of a parody than the thing itself.

“What the fuck is the point of twin beds if they're not apart,” he said, eyeing the two beds opposite the entrance. They were pushed together, and as far as Enjolras could tell, they had to be this close to leave a space between the left bed and the kitchen unit next to it.

“We'll pull them apart, if it's a problem for you,” Enjolras offered, setting down his bag on one of the plastic chairs next to the door.

“It's fine for me,” Grantaire said, turning to face him. “I thought you might...?”

“I don't mind,” Enjolras said quickly and scanned the room. “We'll need to rent linen.”

Grantaire looked bewildered. “Isn't there any in the car?”

“What? Why would there be?”

“You didn't bring sheets from home?” He shook his head, like the notion was completely absurd. “No wonder that semester was a hell trip.”

“Sheets didn't have much to do with it,” Enjolras assured him. “And it wasn't a hell trip.”

“Sure it wasn't,” Grantaire said easily and let himself fall down on one of the beds. “So, number one, get bed linen. What else is on today's agenda?”

Enjolras had picked up some maps and flyers at the reception, and they went through them together, looking for things that sounded interesting and were, ideally, free. The Nature Centre wasn't too far from them, had no entrance fee, and was starting point for a few hikes that were short enough for them to manage in the time that remained of the day.

“We have to do the sun trail,” Grantaire said, pointing at the red line that marked the route on the small map. “As we've just witnessed, my intuition is amazing, and I think we should hike the sun trail.”

“You'll still be milking that in fifty years, won't you,” Enjolras said with a sigh. “I already admitted it was a good hunch.”

“I'm pretty honoured that you think I'll still have a _chance_ to be milking that in fifty years,” Grantaire said, eyebrows raised. “You plan on still letting me annoy you on your deathbed?”

Enjolras felt his frown coming back. “What do you mean?”

Grantaire laughed; it sounded half-hearted. “Nothing. Doesn't matter.”

Such phrases were normally pointless to say to Enjolras, because he'd never been one to let anything go unsaid, but this time, he chose to let it go. They didn't need yet another point to start an argument from.

Grantaire, as always, seemed inclined to disagree.

“You're not going to hike in those shoes, right?” he said later, once they'd sorted out the linen-situation and had taken some time to settle in. Grantaire had offered to make the beds, Enjolras had managed to produce some terrible instant coffee with the kettle from the kitchen unit.

Enjolras looked down at his boat shoes, the pair he'd been wearing all semester. “They'll do fine,” he said, sounding more confident than he felt. “I've had them for ages, they're comfortable.”

“You'll get blisters in them,” Grantaire prophesied, and maybe, if that wasn't about the fifth time that Enjolras had found him condescending that day, he'd have stopped to consider that.

“That's a risk I'll just have to take, then,” he said. “Ready?”

Ironically, Grantaire was in the process of lacing up his boots, the one pair he resolutely wore through all seasons. “As ever,” he replied, cinching the knot up. “You're absolutely sure about the shoes?”

Enjolras said nothing and closed the door behind them more firmly than he needed to.

 

Despite his lack of enthusiasm for geology, Enjolras could understand Combeferre's excitement about the Nature Centure the moment they went inside. It was a large, modern building that seemed to be made only of wood and glass, letting sunlight stream into the entrance hall and allowing a view of the valley almost from wherever you stood.

Large parts of the exhibitions were interactive, which Grantaire seemed to love – he couldn't pass a single screen or speaker without seeing what it did, and whenever there was an exhibit you were allowed to touch, Grantaire did. Meanwhile, Enjolras found himself drawn to the fish tanks, and spent an disproportional amount of time in front of a particularly large one that held a swarm of trout. It felt calm, watching them, and when Grantaire found him sitting on a bench near the glass and completely lost in watching, he had to snap his fingers in front of Enjolras' face several times before he managed to bring him out of this state of near-meditation.

“I didn't know you were a fish-enthusiast,” he said, sitting down next to Enjolras.

“Neither did I,” Enjolras admitted, his eyes following the movements of a smaller trout that seemed to like keeping to the bottom of the tank. “I'm not even sure it's ethical to keep them in tanks; I've never really considered it before.”

Grantaire hummed. “You know how like, every doctor's office in the world has one of those in the waiting room?”

“It's proven to relieve anxiety,” Enjolras said. “There's psychology behind it.”

“I don't think it's working on me,” Grantaire said. “The paediatrician I had to go to as a kid had one, and it freaked me out to no end. Like, I'd hate having to go to the doctor like every other kid, only I wasn't scared of getting a shot or anything, I just hated that fish tank.”

“How come?” Enjolras turned to him. “Are you scared of fish?”

“Well, I'm not now,” Grantaire said, gesturing between the aquarium and himself. “Isn't that just what kids do? Have weird fears?”

“Maybe,” Enjolras said. He looked back at the glass. “I used to hate being in churches.”

Grantaire snorted. “Seriously?”

“As a kid, yes. Not places of worship in general, just those gothic-type, really decorated churches, and cathedrals. I think it was all the figurines, they seemed creepy to me.”

“Or maybe you were already developing anti-establishment sentiments, and the embodiment of such a corrupt institution made you uncomfortable in advance.”

Enjolras gave him a Look, and Grantaire smiled.

“Do you think you're ready to part with the fish yet? If we left for the hike now, we'd probably still make it back to the B&B in time for pancakes.”

“You're not going to let those go, are you?”

“What would be the point of all this if I did?” Grantaire got to his feet, and Enjolras sighed and followed.

 

It took five minutes of hiking for Enjolras to suspect that maybe, Grantaire had been right in expressing concern about his shoes. That was – Grantaire had been right, and at the same time, he hadn't been, because what Enjolras felt coming on couldn't possibly be blisters. That word sounded far too inconspicuous to describe the kind of chafing pain he was beginning to feel at his heels, and, the longer they walked, also his toes.

Being who he was, Enjolras said nothing. At some point, it would stop getting worse, and then, he'd just have to grit his teeth and deal with it. The last person he'd whine to now was Grantaire, who, at least, seemed cheerful as they walked, pointing out cairns along the trail and constantly on the lookout for the right picture opportunity. It provided some distraction from the pain in Enjolras' feet, listening to him, and sometimes, the views that their trail offered were too overwhelming to be preoccupied with anything but them.

They came across two lakes, and Grantaire declared the second one the final and perfect picture opportunity. It was Enjolras who took the picture, and he thought it turned out well, despite the minimal instruction Grantaire had given. Grantaire wasn't happy.  
“I'm in it,” he said, squinting as the outlines of the image became visible as it developed.

“Well, yes. Where else were you supposed to be?”

“Out of frame where I belong.” Grantaire waved the picture, holding it between two fingers. “But the lighting came out all right. Maybe you should stay in charge of photos.”

 

Thus, defying all reason, Enjolras was appointed photographer for this trip, and, since they had to ration their films, embraced this new duty by taking hold of the camera until they got back to the B&B. By then, the sun had started to set, they had missed the pancake restaurant's closing time (Grantaire insisted on pancake breakfast tomorrow morning), and Enjolras feet might as well have been on fire; every step made him want to wince in pain. Grantaire didn't seem to notice, or if he did, he was gracious about it, and went to work on the scrapbook as soon as they were in the cabin again. Enjolras slipped away to the bathrooms to shower – the bathrooms were a nightmare that had done nothing to deserve the name 'bathroom', but Enjolras couldn't find it in himself to care anymore. All he wanted was to take off his shoes and never walk on anything but cotton balls for the rest of his life, and since that last part couldn't be granted, the best he could do was step out of his shoes as soon as the door of the shower cabinet shut behind him.

He realised then, in a short moment of horror, that he'd bled through his socks, and after that simply stopped looking down as he peeled them off as well and stood under the shower. Ironically, the water hurt him, too, and so did getting dressed afterwards. As long as nothing touched the blisters, he was fine, but every time that a piece of fabric so much as brushed them, he could see his life flash before his eyes. In his plight, he ended up walking back to the cabin barefoot, keeping on the grass beside the gravelly path that led there.

Grantaire didn't look up from the scrapbook he'd laid out on the table when Enjolras walked in, which Enjolras was grateful for – the last thing he needed now was the inevitable “I told you so” – and he curled up on the bed, fishing in his bag for his e-reader. Grantaire had changed into his own pyjamas while Enjolras had been gone, artfully avoiding any awkwardness that might have come up otherwise, and they spent some time in silence like that, until said silence was interrupted by a sharp ringing sound that made both of them jump.

“Jesus Christ,” murmured Grantaire, shaking his head as he looked at his phone. “Why do we even have reception up here?”

He left the cabin before Enjolras could reply, only answering the phone once the door was shut and muffled his voice.

 

Grantaire came back in after what must have been at least twenty minutes, looking rattled and muttering to himself as he fiddled with his phone. “How is it actually so impossible to be off the grid these days that you're _still_ reachable when you're in the mountains in the middle of nowhere? Enjolras, you're an idealist, please tell me you think there's a billion things wrong about today's culture of constant contactability.”

“I don't think that's a word.”

“It should be, if – shit.” The agitation vanished from Grantaire's expression within a second. “What the fuck?”

It took Enjolras a second to realise what he meant; he followed Grantaire's look with his eyes and down to – ah.

His feet, which he hadn't dared to tuck under the duvet yet, and which looked like he'd contracted some sort of medieval bubonic malady.

“What the fuck,” Grantaire repeated, and looked up at Enjolras now. “Did you walk around with those all day?”

“You definitely get to say I told you so,” Enjolras said, and tried to pull his feet under the blanket, only to immediately regret that decision. “Not that it's needed, but...”

“Your feet are bleeding,” Grantaire said, his expression bordering on horrified. “Why didn't you say anything? We walked over rocks for like, five kilometres, and the whole time—?”

“Well, they did take time to form,” Enjolras said. “So technically I didn't have them for the entire hike.”

Grantaire looked upset, his hands restlessly clenching and unclenching at his sides. “Why are you like that?” His voice was tense. “Fuck knows I hardly ever have anything useful to say, so I get it, okay, but you – how is it actually possible for you to resent me enough to do two things that hurt yourself in one day, just because _I_ was the one who happened to bring them up? Am I that spiteful to you, or are you honestly too proud to admit that someone else wasn't wrong about something for once?”

“That's really not what happened, but while we're at it, the fact that you constantly talk down to me like you're in any position to do that was definitely a factor,” Enjolras said, making some effort to keep his tone even. “That aside, didn't you suggest this whole thing to rile me up in the first place? And now you're mad because you've succeeded? Why not just accept your laurel and be done with it?”

Grantaire drew in a sharp breath. His whole posture was strained from anger, his hands balled to fists, and Enjolras had no idea when their conversation had twisted in this way. “You should take a second some time and consider if you actually have _any_ understanding of the people around you, Enjolras,” he said, almost hissing the words. “You don't know anything.”

For a second, he looked like he was about to continue, but he said nothing more, turned on his heel, and left.

Enjolras stared at the closed door for a few long moments before letting himself fall backwards on the bed, dejected.

He'd known the second Combeferre had first hinted at it that this was a terrible idea. The only possible solution, maybe, but why had Enjolras felt the need to draw it out like this? Why had it been so impossible for him to just stick to the plan, rather than risking them scratching each other's eyes out before even making it to the German border? Had he been that optimistic because they'd been civil to one another for a short while that he'd thought there was actually a point in trying to connect with Grantaire? If so, well, at least he'd learned his lesson in that respect. They'd just wasted an entire travel day falling back into that old familiar pattern of arguing, running off, making up but not making up, and feeling guilty and uncomfortable afterwards. This time, they wouldn't even be able to establish any kind of distance the way they normally did, which was a surefire way to clash again much sooner.

A few minutes passed, and Enjolras, lying on his back with closed eyes, came back to himself. It was an established rule that when Grantaire left any place like this, someone would go after him. That hadn't been necessary in a while, because Grantaire was less hostile than he used to be, and these situations weren't as dangerous anymore now that he stayed away from alcohol, but it was already dark and Grantaire had clearly already been upset about something before he'd seen Enjolras' feet. _That phone call_. Enjolras had a sudden déjà-vu that took him back to the day Combeferre had first voiced the idea. Who would be calling Grantaire across Europe like this? Why did Grantaire feel the need to leave the room every time it happened, like whatever he talked about wasn't supposed to be heard by anyone?

There was nothing to it. Enjolras wasn't quite done being angry yet, but that gave him no right to be a bad friend. He'd resigned to go out look for Grantaire and was trying to find his jacket when the cabin door opened again, revealing Grantaire, who looked as miserable as before.

Enjolras glanced at him, surprised enough to let the residual anger get the better of him for a second. “Back already? What happened, did you run out of cigarettes?”

Grantaire just shook his head with a short, bitter smile, his shoulders hunched. “You know, I'm sort of desperate to walk out again right now, but the third time around, it just gets pathetic,” he said and tossed a small plastic bag in Enjolras' direction.

Enjolras caught it just barely from where he sat on the bed, and had a quick look at the contents – band-aids, some sort of ointment, a box of blister plasters. “Where did you get these?” he asked quietly.

“Reception,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras could tell he was deliberately not looking up as he rummaged through his bag. “Turns out people not bringing tramping boots is sort of a common problem.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said, his voice almost a whisper now. The silence that followed this was heavy and uncomfortable, and Enjolras was desperate to fill it somehow – was this the kind of moment he should apologise in? What for? How was he supposed to act in the face of something – _someone_ – that made so little sense?

He felt his fingers tighten, crinkling the plastic, and found that there was nothing else he could say. Instead, he set about cleaning some of the smeared blood around the blisters off his skin, and then tried to figure out the ointment. It was meant to go directly on the wounded area, and Enjolras determinedly put some on a tissue and started dabbing it on, only to find that it hurt like hell and made him flinch away from his own touch with every tap.

“Do you want me to do it?”

Enjolras glanced up to look at Grantaire, who was curled up on one of the chairs by the table, holding his phone in both hands.

“Just,” he continued, explaining, “you look like you'd rather risk dying of sepsis than continue.”

“You don't have to,” Enjolras said, because he didn't see how someone else being the one to torture him like this would help, and Grantaire had already been nicer to him than what was probably fair.

“I don't mind,” Grantaire said, moving to sit at the end of the bed. “It's less terrifying when someone else does the gross stuff, in my experience.”

“Fine,” Enjolras said, still only half-convinced. He handed Grantaire the tissue and ointment, edging one foot a little closer to him.

“Okay?” Grantaire asked before putting a hand to Enjolras' ankle. Enjolras nodded slowly, and Grantaire started dabbing the ointment on the sore spots on his toes.

It still stung, terribly even, but at the same time, the entire situation was so strange that Enjolras almost forgot about the pain. Grantaire was careful about his job, his touch so gentle it made something in Enjolras' chest contract sharply, and every few seconds, his eyes flicked up to Enjolras', as if to make sure he was still allowed to do this.

It almost made Enjolras angry, seeing him like this. They'd both been unfair to each other, and Enjolras had gotten a chance to express that frustration, hadn't had any trouble at all with letting Grantaire feel it, if only for a second. He wanted Grantaire to slam a door, call him an arrogant rich boy, anything at all, just so that he'd have an outlet.

Instead, there he was, bowed over Enjolras' feet and touching them like they were made of glass.

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras said. “For... earlier. You were just concerned, I didn't realise that.”

“Mainly, I was awfully surprised,” Grantaire said with a half-smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “Who knew something could actually hurt those holy feet?”

“I didn't,” Enjolras said earnestly, furrowing his brow. “I wasn't just being stubborn, I've never gotten blisters before in my life. It felt like walking on knives.”

Now Grantaire was actually laughing, if only just a little. “I'm going to get so many people to start calling you little mermaid.” He stilled. “Don't we drive through Copenhagen? I want to see the little mermaid.”

“I want to ask you not to spread that nickname, but I probably deserve it,” Enjolras said, watching as Grantaire finished up his toes and moved on from them.

“Well, I haven't really settled on that one yet.” Grantaire folded the tissue and spread some more ointment on it. “Maybe Achilles was the right choice all along,” he added softly as he touched Enjolras' heel.

Enjolras looked down at him, but Grantaire didn't meet his gaze. They were silent for the rest of the procedure, band-aids to prevent chafing following the ointment, until Grantaire declared his feet as patched up as they were going to get them, and Enjolras was finally able to pull them under the duvet without feeling like he'd stuck them into a tub of acid.

They settled into bed not too long after, and Enjolras understood Grantaire's earlier horror at the two-beds-in-one arrangement then, because it was undeniably strange to be forced into one another's proximity after the day they'd had. Even though there technically were two beds, and Grantaire, who lay on his side facing the wall, seemed to make some effort to lie as far from Enjolras as he could, he was never more than an arm's length away. After they'd shut off the lights and it went completely quiet, Enjolras could hear his breath, steady and close, and something about this was comforting, a feeling of knowing that Grantaire was there and near and _safe_ that he'd never realised he needed.

The next morning, he'd blame it on the exhaustion of the day that he, despite his constant struggle to fall asleep that he'd almost gotten used to in the previous weeks, only took a few minutes to drift off into slumber.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should you need an image description/not-technically-transcript-but-sort-of-a-transcript of the scrapbook pages for any reason, please let me know!  
> Norwegian prices for stuff are confusing, because Norwegian kroner are confusing. In euros or pounds or USD, they spend about 10-15 at the supermarket, not 100, as it shows up on the receipt.  
> It doesn't look like I'm going to figure out a regular schedule for updates right now, but I'll try to work that out as soon as I can. Meanwhile, thank you so much for reading, and you can always talk to me [on tumblr](http://lesamis.tumblr.com/). :)


	3. Hardangervidda - Oslo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are disappointing pancakes, traffic ruins everything, Grantaire pines, and Oslo is the new Venice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter!! After two months!! I am so sorry, and if anyone's still out there that has been waiting for this, thank you for sticking around. ♥

From the moment he'd met him, Grantaire had known there were some things he never wanted to find out about Enjolras. That was a very conscious choice – especially at that time, years ago, when Courfeyrac had spent every waking hour lamenting how his in-depth knowledge of Marius' habits was worsening his feelings the more it grew. Éponine had confirmed – if you had it bad already, then the more you found out about someone, the worse it got.

So Grantaire had always been aware that if he, say, came to find out what shower gel Enjolras used, or what he looked like asleep next to Grantaire, a lot of things would become a lot more difficult for him. The universe, however, was quick to disregard that concern, and took this opportunity to shower Grantaire in knowledge of Enjolras that he'd never wanted to acquire.

Aside from the fact that Grantaire now _did_ know what shower gel Enjolras used (brand, Greek Yoghurt scented, it made him smell faintly of vanilla when he'd only just showered) and that he looked freakishly peaceful and young in his sleep (he seemed to have a habit of hugging something to his chest, the duvet or the pillow, like a child cradling a stuffed animal), there was another thing Grantaire had never even realised he hadn't wanted to know.

He found out, already on their first day of travelling together, that he brought out the worst in Enjolras in ways that he had completely underestimated before. Enjolras was headstrong, but not stubborn beyond reason, unless, as it turned out, he had Grantaire to prove wrong. So far, they'd never been forced into each other's proximity for long enough to make that little factoid come to light, and secretly, Grantaire wished they hadn't now, either.

“I can't believe you passed up a chance for cheese and herbes de Provence,” Grantaire noted over breakfast. Enjolras' love for crêpes with cheese was quite well-known, and Norwegian pancakes were essentially crêpes the cook hadn't bothered to spread out thinly enough. Yet, there Enjolras was, staring down his apricot jam pancake like he had betrayed a personal principle in ordering it.

“Cheese isn't sweet,” Enjolras offered as an explanation. “I've never been able to stand savoury for breakfast.”

Grantaire supposed he could add this to the list of slightly less depressing new things he was learning about Enjolras. “How very French of you.”

“You look tired,” Enjolras said, somehow managing to look composed even as he drizzled honey over his pancake to sweeten it in addition to the jam. “Did you sleep all right?”

“Like a dead man,” Grantaire lied. “I'm pretty well-rested, it's just my face. I look perpetually tired. Probably because I am, in a way, perpetually tired of some thing or another, so.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing that sleep could fix. What about you?”

“I slept fine,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire thought there was something strange in his eyes for a second, but he blinked and it was gone. “Surprisingly.”

That made one of them, Grantaire supposed. Enjolras didn't need to know that it was impossible to sleep next to him. Grantaire liked to pride himself in needing little more than a horizontal surface to lie down on to fall asleep, but the “little more” definitely included a semi-steady heartbeat. When he'd finally drifted off to sleep in the small hours in the morning, it had been from sheer exhaustion.

“How are your feet?” Grantaire asked.

Enjolras grimaced, reminded of his vulnerability. “They hurt. Not so much as long as they're covered up, but it's...” He shook his head. “It's just a nuisance. I don't want to have to keep my feet in mind all the time for the rest of the trip, it's already annoying me.”

He didn't mean to, but Grantaire laughed. “You feel betrayed by your body, don't you,” he said. “You must be really unused to this.”

“Well, I am,” Enjolras said with a shrug. “I suppose I've been lucky with that kind of thing so far.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, which, coming from anyone else, might have been strange, but thinking about it, Grantaire realised that it was just the plain truth. They'd known each other for years, but Grantaire couldn't seem to remember Enjolras ever being sick, not in the nastiest of flu seasons, or hurt, not after the worst of altercations (and there had been quite a few of those). It shouldn't have been a surprise, but Grantaire couldn't help but marvel a little at how literal Enjolras' aloofness was.

“I told Combeferre we'd be a day late,” Enjolras said, eyes still lowered to his plate. “He's going to let Jehan know, so you won't have to spend money on texting him yourself.”

Grantaire had some trouble catching up. “...Jehan?”

“For Javeline,” Enjolras said patiently. “So he knows he'll still have to look after her until the end of the week?”

“Ah,” Grantaire said. He waved a hand. “I wasn't even going to text him about that. He thinks she's a medium; he loves taking her in. If I never picked her up from his place, he'd just keep her without questioning it. She likes him better than me, anyway.”

“Don't say that.” Enjolras sounded annoyed, and also looked it, when Grantaire glanced up at him.

“She's a cat, Enjolras,” Grantaire said slowly. “Her indifference doesn't wound me. It's a normal cat-owner relationship.”

“Doesn't sound very rewarding.”

“Well, it isn't. I mean, it is, I love her, but we're more like roommates. She does her thing, I do mine.” He smiled. “I keep forgetting; you're a dog person.”

“What? No, I'm not,” Enjolras said. “I don't see why anyone should have to be just either. It's possible to like more than one animal.”

“Hey, you're preaching to the choir.” Grantaire narrowed his eyes at Enjolras, wondering. “Did you ever have pets growing up?”

“We had a dog,” Enjolras said. “Well, we _have_ a dog, technically, but I never bonded much with the latest one. They got him after I moved out.” He shook his head suddenly, like he didn't quite understand when or why their conversation had drifted here. “My point was, I told Combeferre about the route we planned out, and he said we should avoid the ferry at Larvik because it's very unreliable. He told me there was a chance that we'd get there to find it wasn't running.”

“Great,” Grantaire sighed. He had no idea how so much could not go according to plan in so little time. “And he couldn't have mentioned that before we left?”

“Since he didn't know which route we were taking, no,” Enjolras said. “He advised us to go cross-country instead.”

Grantaire considered that for a moment. “That's. Uh, correct me if I'm wrong here, but wouldn't that entail a detour through all of Sweden, then Finland, Russia, Belarus, _and_ Poland?”

“Right, cross-country might have been the wrong choice of words. I've had a look at the map, and I thought it wouldn't be too much of a stretch if we took a ferry in Malmö instead of Larvik.”

“Malmö?” Grantaire frowned. “You mean. The one in Sweden?”

“Yes. I've tried to calculate it, and I think it wouldn't even cause too much of a delay. A few hours, at most.”

“That's...” Grantaire tried to think it through, knowing he wouldn't be able to offer an alternative, because he really was bad at geography. “That'd mean we're going from here to Oslo, then through to the south of Sweden, then Kopenhagen, then Germany?”

“That's vaguely what I had in mind,” Enjolras nodded. “We'll have to look at the map for details, but I think we can just stay on the 7 for the next few hours. It should end in Oslo, then we'll see.”

“Right.” Grantaire looked down at his pancake. “Did I mention how disappointing this thing is? I put so much hope into it, and it's just... I mean, it's a pancake. I thought they were putting walnuts and goat's cheese and stuff on there because it was some sort of culinary experience, but it's just odd.”

Enjolras laughed, a little, barely-there huff of breath. “Not a great experience, I imagine. Putting faith into something for once and being let down.”

“Oh, please.” Grantaire bit back a smile. “Are you ever going to pass up a chance to turn something completely unrelated into a vague attempt at psychoanalysis?”

“Not today,” Enjolras said. “Likely, not ever.”

 

The map proved Enjolras right – the quickest way to Malmö was via Oslo, and in order to get to Oslo, they'd only have to keep following the road they were already on. “It's not the main road between Bergen and Oslo, so it should be pretty clear, too,” Enjolras said once they'd packed up and were stowing their essentials in the car again.

“Great,” Grantaire said, adjusting the rear-view mirror. “That means you can take a nap or something, if there's no navigation duty.”

Enjolras gave him a long look, then he pulled the passenger's side door closed and buckled up. “As I recall, I'm still on duty for taking pictures, so. Plus, as I said, I slept better than I have in weeks. I don't really need a nap; must be the air up here.”

Grantaire scoffed at that automatically, recalling his night of tossing and turning, and stilled when Enjolras pinned him with a look again. Right. “I just meant,” he said, “you could relax. If you wanted.”

The look didn't sway from him, and Grantaire tried not to let show just how unnerving that actually was as he started up the car and they pulled back onto the road.

It was just them and the music for a few minutes, and Grantaire tried desperately to keep his thoughts from drifting back to last night. He didn't succeed at all, because there was nothing to distract him. Enjolras had apologised, yesterday, and it had taken a lot out of Grantaire not to just start yelling on hearing that. He'd had no reason to apologise; in fact, Grantaire had only taken so long to return with the supplies because he'd had to walk a lap around the grounds to calm down from how angry he was at himself.

He had never made anything easy for Enjolras. He'd always sort of _wanted_ to, vaguely, beneath everything else, but all he had ever managed to do was make things harder, complicate them, in some instances even ruin them. This didn't only apply to Enjolras – actually, it applied to some of his other friends much more, not to mention his family – but with Enjolras, he had always felt more obligated, more like he had something to prove. For the largest part of the time that they'd known each other, he had also felt completely incapable of proving anything, of redeeming himself in whatever way, but he had gotten that chance now, he could be helpful. And he had somehow managed to turn that around within the first day of travelling together.

He knew, somewhere, that Enjolras didn't blame him. Enjolras judged himself more harshly than he judged anyone else, and probably had enough needless frustration with himself bubbling under his skin as it was. Grantaire had added to that yesterday night instead of subtracting from it, and he had no idea how to make it better.

By listening to Enjolras, he resolved. By being unobjectionable, one of the things he was absolutely terrible at being. But he was over trying to shove to make Enjolras push back, even though it came instinctively – he couldn't let it happen anymore.

“Did Combeferre pass judgement on our delay?” Grantaire asked when they'd been driving in mostly-silence for a while. Enjolras had resorted to his sudoku again, but he seemed relieved to have a chance at conversation instead.

“I wouldn't say judgement, necessarily,” he said. “He was curious, because I didn't get to explain much in 160 characters. Whatever he tells the others might be a huge misinterpretation, depending on how he read it.”

“You didn't have space to clarify, but he could go into detail on ferry traffic in the far south of Norway?” Grantaire grinned. “I mean, I'm not even surprised.”

“We're in an area without accessible wi-fi, if I'm going to text, I'm going to be efficient about it,” Enjolras said. “It's worth the risk of a few convoluted rumours.”

“Hmm, probably. Although Chetta did message me earlier this morning to tell me off for going on a pleasure cruise instead of coming home, so make of that what you will.” Grantaire smiled at Enjolras' frown. “News travel fast.”

“I take it you didn't correct her.”

“Well, obviously not. As you said. No wi-fi, efficiency, et cetera.”

That, and Musichetta had actually not been jealous of said pleasure cruise as much as she had been reproachful about Grantaire delaying his return when there were “fires to put out” back home. Which effectively called Grantaire out on one of the things he was trying to do here – stalling, trying to figure out what to do once he couldn't run from making choices anymore, trying to think of what to say the next time he'd pick up the phone. He couldn't help but think that Musichetta was somehow in on the constant calls, or she wouldn't have bothered to text him. None of the others had, most likely caught up in blissful illusions of what a great opportunity this trip could be for the two of them to get it together and reach an acceptable level of friendship and mutual understanding.

Grantaire really wondered about his friends sometimes.

Enjolras looked dissatisfied, now that he'd looked up from his paper and had a look at the road. “It's busier than I thought it would be.”

Grantaire shrugged; the road was narrow, but rather crowded. “It is the middle of summer,” he said, again. “And isn't the 7 actually shorter than the main road? Maybe everyone thinks this one is going to be less busy, and that's... how this happens.”

“Hm.” Enjolras frowned unhappily. “It's not that bad yet. We're fine as long as there isn't a jam.”

 

Not fifteen minutes later, they came to a halt, because the car in front of them did, and the car in front of that one. They were both silent for a few moments, then Enjolras activated the hazards, and Grantaire cleared his throat.

“Enjolras,” he said, “are you by any chance familiar with the concept of a jinx?”

Enjolras looked straight at him and shook his head. “Don't do this to me,” he said. “Not now. Honestly, at this rate, I'm going to lose my mind before we make it across the Swedish border.”

Grantaire closed his eyes, wondering if he was ever going to figure out how to say things that were just completely inoffensive. “I'm sorry. I wasn't being serious, please don't be upset.”

Falling back in his seat, Enjolras sighed. He looked defeated. “I'm not.”

“It's just a bit of slow traffic,” Grantaire attempted. “I'm sure it's going to dissolve soon.”

Enjolras leaned forward to eject the CD, switching to radio instead, and Grantaire almost protested before he realised that Enjolras was looking for a traffic report. He frowned in focus as he switched between the stations, never finding what he was looking for, until he finally gave up and left a station with a cheerful pop song on. “We'll have to wait until it's half past.”

“Oh, the joy of roaming charges,” Grantaire said, because it wasn't like this was the first time being cut off from the rest of the world was making things more difficult for them. “Maybe one of us should just give in and activate it.”

“Hardly a point to it now that we're on our way to leave the country again.” Enjolras closed his eyes, and he suddenly seemed incredibly tired. It occurred to Grantaire that even though he'd been tense, so far, Enjolras had been holding it together quite well, all things considered. Certainly better than Grantaire himself, who smoked a little too much and was visibly anxious every second of the way. What if this, being stuck in traffic after having dealt with all the other garbage, was Enjolras' last straw?

It had always done strange things to Grantaire, seeing Enjolras exhausted or defeated or in any way unhappy. It made him _want_ to do strange things. Like spontaneously re-design the car and turn it into the Harry Potter model, the one that flew and would take them all the way to Oslo within twenty minutes.

Grantaire unbuckled his seat belt and got out of the car, which was safe enough, because their entire lane was standing completely still. He wanted to get a better look ahead, but when he did, he immediately regretted it, because everything was at a standstill all the way to the next bend in the road. Some people, in their frustration, had tried to make it further on the opposite lane, which had caused that one to clog up as well. No one seemed to actually come from the opposite direction, though, which wasn't a particularly good sign either.

“Okay,” Grantaire said and sat back down, pulling the door closed and shutting the engine off. “I think it's time to break out the whole assortment of classic road trip games there is.”

Enjolras didn't look convinced or particularly enthusiastic, but to Grantaire's surprise, he nodded. Grantaire could only take it as a sign of how defeated he felt. “All right.” He unbuckled his seatbelt as well and pulled in his legs, trying to get more comfortable. “Jeu du bac?”

“No way.” Grantaire shook his head. “I'm not playing that against you.”

“Why not?”

“Because we both know you'll win, and that's just boring. We need even odds.”

“Have you ever actually played against me?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Then how do you know I'll win?”

Grantaire sighed. “I'm trying to avoid humiliation here. It'd be nice if you let me.”

“Fine.” Enjolras shrugged. “Suggest something better.”

“Two truths and a lie?”

“That's not a road trip game, that's an icebreaker game.”

“ _Name is but sound and smoke_ ,” Grantaire quoted, half-serious. “I mean, we could do twenty questions, or I spy. I should mention, though, that this whole situation is already cliché enough without us actively helping it.”

Enjolras' lips twitched, and Grantaire hoped that this was him resisting a smile. “All right, then. You go first.”

“Okay.” Grantaire turned so he'd face Enjolras and leaned against the door, crossing his legs on the seat. “So... First, I have not one, but two obnoxious middle names; second, I didn't actually rescue Javeline, she just showed up at my flat and I didn't know what to do but let her stay; and third, I've never broken a bone.”

Enjolras looked thoughtful for a moment, then he squinted. “You realise that it's not called 'two lies and a truth'?”

“Of course I do.” He didn't bother trying to sound offended. “I'm not great at math, but I'd like to think I've got those basics down.”

“But it's not possible that you've never broken a bone.”

Grantaire couldn't help his smile. “Care to let me in on your thought process here?”

“Right.” Enjolras straightened in his seat, preparing to make a case. “I know you rescued Javeline; you wouldn't lie just to boast.” Grantaire's heart skipped a beat. In this particular case, Enjolras was actually right, but oh, if only he knew. “So that's the lie. That means you have two middle names, and you've never broken a bone, which is _impossible_.”

“I don't even know if I'm supposed to take offence at the fact that you think that,” Grantaire said earnestly. “Although I'll have you know that being impossible is one of the few things I excel at.”

Enjolras seemed to genuinely contemplate that statement for a while. Then he looked up. “Are you going to tell me your middle names?”

“That's not part of the rules,” Grantaire said. “Your turn.”

“I'm just going to skip mentioning that refusing to elaborate defeats the game's purpose,” Enjolras said, but he didn't sound harsh. “One, I had ballet lessons as a kid; two, I don't actually wear contact lenses because I find glasses impractical, but because I don't like how I look in them; three, our family's dogs were always Labradors.”

“Huh.” Grantaire frowned. “That's way more difficult than mine.”

Enjolras shrugged, unapologetic. “That's not my fault.”

“Wow, okay.” Grantaire hummed as he considered the three statements. The one about the contact lenses had too much detail to be a lie made up on the spot, but the other ones were pretty even in likelihood of being true or false. “Are the Labradors a lie?”

“We always had St. Bernards,” Enjolras said, and made a small gesture between them then. “See, this is how it works. You have to actually divulge things.”

Grantaire opted for not commenting that. “Ballet, hm?”

Enjolras hummed. “I had bad posture when I was younger; my mother thought it might help.”

“That's an... unconventional idea for a mother to have.”

“And not a very good one, looking back,” Enjolras said. “I went for half a year, which wasn't really enough to actually improve my posture, and I really disliked it. It seemed so pointless.”

“Ah, of course it did. The arts, always so annoying with their lack of purpose.”

“I don't feel that way at all,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire reminded himself once more to rein in the constant little jibes. “It just wasn't for me. That's the thing about the arts, isn't it? If you don't love them, it's best not to stick with them.”

His look was something strange, combative while somehow saying _See how much I'm divulging?_ at the same time. Grantaire felt helpless, in the way that he was almost used to by now.

“My turn,” he said, in lieu of a witty retort.

Enjolras got the next lie wrong – Grantaire did not, in fact, know how to play the harp, and he did, in fact, own more memorabilia of obscure science fiction B movies than anyone should. It was strange to hear Enjolras' thoughts as he tried to tell lie from truth, because the more they talked, the more Grantaire began to think that even though he had always been quite certain in Enjolras' low opinion of him, the thing causing difficulties between them now seemed to be the exact opposite of that. Enjolras thought he was capable of more than he really was – did he _look_ like someone who knew how to play one of the most difficult instruments out there? Or like someone who could beat summa-cum-laude-Licence-holding Enjolras at jeu du bac? The notion was completely absurd. It wasn't too easy not to let his confusion about that show.

But then, he got some things about Enjolras wrong as well. As it turned out, Enjolras had two half-sisters on his father's side that were so much older than him and around so little that it barely changed anything about his status as an only child. He also had to force coffee down and preferred tea, which Grantaire wouldn't have guessed in a million years, and had a strong dislike for seafood.

Halfway through the fifth round, Enjolras suddenly stopped and leaned forward to turn the volume of the radio up. “It's half past,” he said. “Traffic report.”

They both sat silently and listened as the voice of the Norwegian reporter announced what Grantaire guessed were the news in traffic – it could have been anything, though, because Grantaire didn't understand a single word. It was hard to tell words from one another when you spoke so little (not to say nothing) of a language, and for a very strange moment, Grantaire found himself attracted to the mere fact that Enjolras seemed to be able to actually make sense of that steady, unintelligible stream of sounds.

“There was a truck accident in one of the tunnels ahead,” Enjolras said after his face had briefly lit up with recognition, probably at the name of the road they were on. “People can't get through from either side, and we're advised to take the diversion indicated by the police.” He sighed. “That's even worse than I thought.”

“It's not worse than I thought,” Grantaire admitted. They hadn't moved an inch in twenty minutes, which meant that there was either a traffic catastrophe or a glitch in the Matrix. “Maybe we can try to find our own diversion? We do have a map, the only problem is that I think both lanes are clogged at this point.”

“As long as they are, why can't go anywhere anyway.” Enjolras ran a hand over his face. “Except back? Would that make sense?”

“We might be able to go back and find a way to get north, to the 16,” Grantaire said, hoping he wasn't completely off. Enjolras had already reached for the road map, unfolding it between them, and they started looking for every little side route that might offer them a way out.

They found an exit a few kilometres back, one that should, if the map was at least vaguely correct, lead them to a rural road they could follow to the alternative Bergen-Oslo route. It would take them a lot more time and gas than anticipated, but Enjolras still argued in favour, saying that not moving forward at all was bad for morale.

“We're going to take longer than we thought we would anyway,” he went on. “And at least in that case we have certainty. If we stay here, we can't know if we still won't have moved an inch by tomorrow morning.”

Grantaire shrugged. “You're the boss.” He hadn't really needed convincing in the first place, but he had a feeling Enjolras was also trying to convince himself of his own point.

 

They turned around, although it took some manoeuvring, and Enjolras navigated until they were safely on a road that would lead them north. It was already past noon, so as soon as they were sure of their route again, they stopped for lunch, and only drove on once they'd re-stocked on provisions – it seemed like they were going to need more of those than anticipated, after all.

It was possible that Grantaire was imagining it, but to him, things felt lighter despite the complications. Yes, they had lost a lot of time and were still in the process of losing more, but at least they were doing so peacefully.

Enjolras seemed to have noticed it, too, and he kept glancing at Grantaire, as though looking for something there. Finally, after they'd already been driving for a considerable time, he spoke.

“Thank you for earlier.”

Grantaire did a terrible job at disguising his lack of comprehension at that. “Uh. What did I do?”

“What I needed you to, accidentally,” Enjolras said. “I had a – well, I didn't really lose my head, but I might have. I didn't know I needed question games to settle again, but I think I did.” He smiled, and it was so brilliant, no matter how tentative. “You're good in a crisis.”

“Only when I'm not aware that it's a crisis, apparently,” Grantaire replied. He hesitated before continuing. “Was it just the stress of travel? The thing that upset you?”

Grantaire couldn't look, because the bends in this road were completely out of control and required attention, but he felt Enjolras' eyes on him. He couldn't imagine that their gaze was as kind as it had only just been.

“I suppose it was,” Enjolras replied after some silence. “Technically. Things have been building up, and I know it's silly, but that felt like a breaking point. I'm not sure why.”

“You don't have to explain,” Grantaire hurried to say. “I just wanted to – I don't know. If there was something I could do...” He sighed. “Doesn't matter.”

Enjolras was quiet again, gathering his thoughts. “You know how you've asked about my semester here before?”

“Yeah.”

“And I kept insisting it wasn't that bad?”

“Yes.”

“It was... bad.” Enjolras sounded hesitant to say it, his tone teetering on the brink of reluctance. “It wasn't the workload, or the subjects, it was just... The way I dealt with it all. Which was – poorly. And I didn't understand why, but some of the things that I could handle easily back home were suddenly so difficult, and it became overwhelming within the first month already.” He exhaled. “Combeferre leaving just put another strain on things. Now I'm left to deal with the fallout, and we somehow managed to drag you in as well, which doesn't really make me feel better about it.”

It was obvious that Grantaire had to reply to that, but he had no idea what to say. He could hardly tell Enjolras how completely absurd, how downright nonsensical it was to feel guilty about being human, and words of comfort seemed strangely misplaced.

“We're going to get home, though,” he said instead, because that was the one option left; say something that was marginally related and elude the actual statement he had to react to. It was a little embarrassing how well-acquainted Grantaire was with conversation strategies – they helped him feel a little more at ease with his own words, something the sober version of himself had always struggled with and was still struggling with now. “I don't know if we're, like, cursed or something, what with this taking already twice as long as it should, but we're going to be back eventually, you know? This is a stress factor with an expiration date. Those are actually the good kind.”

“I know.” Enjolras had been wringing his hands in his lap, Grantaire noticed now. “I mean, I've been dealing with it. Again, poorly, but I'm as fine as I get. I just wanted you to know, so it wouldn't... so it wouldn't keep getting in the way without you knowing what was happening.”

“Right.” Grantaire swallowed and tried not to read a not-so-subtle hint into that. Enjolras made that impossible by saying what he meant, as he was wont to do.

“Now that we've laid out my crisis,” he said, “will you tell me about yours?”

Grantaire started tapping his fingers against the steering wheel again. “Demanding a quid pro quo, huh? Didn't think that was your style.”

“I'm not demanding anything,” Enjolras said, not unkindly. “I thought that if you wanted to talk anyway, this might make it easier. We're in each other's constant company, and if something was wrong, I'd like to know.”

Buying time to pick his words a little more carefully, Grantaire took a deep breath. “You realise that we've only just talked about how much shit you have to deal with already?” He wanted to look at Enjolras, but keeping his eyes front was both more important and easier. “I'm asking to take something off your hands; hey, it's a chance for you to take it easy for once in your life, and precisely not to worry about everything and everyone around you.”

“And that's another thing,” Enjolras said. He only seemed even more discontented now. “You keep doing this, acting like I never stop to breathe—”

“But do you?”

“Does it matter? I don't think you're turning me into a hedonist in this lifetime.”

Grantaire huffed. Of course Enjolras would consider cutting himself some slack not a basic need, but a luxury. “That's not what it's about.”

“Then explain to me what it's about.” He didn't sound angry – in fact, he was remarkably patient. “I'm trying to keep up with you.”

“It's about –” Grantaire stopped, wondering if there was any way at all that he could keep this from sounding patronising. “We've just talked about how much your last semester sucked, right? And with all you've said about it, don't you think there's a possibility that it wouldn't have sucked as much if you'd actually taken into consideration that you're, like, a person?” He winced at his own words there and shook his head. “I mean. You were here with Combeferre, and I bet he had his own problems; hell, that's why he's all the way across Europe right now, because he has no idea how to listen to his own advice, but he – he went on that trip with the rocks and everything,” and wow, that sounded even worse the second time he said it, “he actually visited the museum, and he may be just as terrible as you right now, but at least he didn't hit rock bottom in his first month here.”

Enjolras' eyes were on him again. Grantaire guessed that if he hadn't regretted opening up to Grantaire about this before, he certainly did now.

“What do you suggest?” Enjolras sounded calm. “It's easy to tell someone not to worry, but you can't make them stop.”

“I know.” Grantaire sighed. This was so ridiculous. He had no idea what he was doing, trying to give life advice to someone who had their life together far more than he did. “Obviously, there's no miracle cure, but don't you think it would be easier to deal with all the worrying if you let yourself have nice things? I mean, clearly I don't even know what nice things are for you, but if it's, like, staring at an aquarium, I say take five minutes out of your day to do that. You know? Sleep in the passenger's seat if you're tired. Buy the chocolate cereal bar instead of the gross berry one. Just things like that.”

If not for the music that had gone back to Courf's playlist, it would have been quiet in the car. Grantaire silently wondered if he had just thrown his chances at the balanced, ordinary friendship with Enjolras that all his friends deemed possible completely out of the window. Was he being condescending? Was he being presumptuous? Most importantly, how terrible did you have to be when the people around you were genuinely surprised that you might just care about their wellbeing?

“I'm aware that it's a problem sometimes,” Enjolras finally said. “I don't like to indulge.”

“Oh, please. Giving yourself a break now and then, how is that indulgent? Maybe if _I_ started to reward myself for nothing, that might be sort of questionable, but you? There's a difference between basic self-care and gluttony.”

Enjolras scoffed, suddenly, and it startled Grantaire enough to look over. Enjolras shook his head. “You basically just told me that you don't heed your own advice. That's an element of basic argumentation, R, you can't start your point with 'So this doesn't apply to me, but'. You're better than this.”

“I think the problem is that I'm not,” Grantaire admitted, and then he frowned. “When did this start being about my argumentation skills anyway?”

“When you messed up convincing me by making a rookie mistake.” When Grantaire looked over again, Enjolras was smiling a little, and shrugged. “Sorry.”

Grantaire smiled to himself, but he said nothing, and the topic seemed exhausted for the moment.

 

They reached the main road after two hours of blundering, and it felt like coming up from below the water and taking a deep breath. The road had three lanes, it was mostly clear, and the speed limit was bumped up a little, so Grantaire didn't feel as if they were crawling along at snail pace anymore.

Enjolras packed up the road map once they were halfway to Oslo, only to get it out again when they crossed city limits. The sun was already setting, the air outside cooling down enough for Grantaire to switch off air conditioning.

He was tired, the lack of sleep from last night making itself more prominent every minute, and he was in a place by now where he might just have genuinely killed for a cigarette, but he tried not to let it show. They'd taken enough breaks already, and barely covered any distance today – they had to move forward, and sleep would have to wait.

“Pretty incredible,” he murmured, almost to himself, “how we've managed to take nine hours of driving to put a distance behind us that's normally done in four.”

“I think we're going to take longer yet,” Enjolras said, and the earnestness in his voice terrified Grantaire.

“Please tell me you still know where we're going.”

Enjolras folded the map over, holding it closer to his face like that was going to make a difference. “I'm... in the process of figuring it out.”

In his exasperation, Grantaire didn't manage not to sound flippant. “Come on! We've only just left the main road, how hard can it be?”

“This map is ten years old, it's a very valid possibility that we're on a street that's not on it,” Enjolras said. “I'm trying to fill in the gaps here; please let me.”

“Can you at least tell me what I'm supposed to be looking out for?” Grantaire asked. “Signs, street names, anything?”

“ _I_ can look for signs. Focus on driving.” Enjolras seemed to notice how sharply that had come out, and added a softer, “Please.”

So Grantaire drove, and, while driving, began to think that even if he had actively started searching for useful signs, he likely wouldn't have found any, because those that he spotted were maddeningly unhelpful. He remembered now that it was always pointless trying to navigate a place by signs if you only knew about three place names of the country you were in – that was a lesson he had learned long before they had started this trip, but it occurred to him now that Enjolras probably hadn't.

Enjolras directed him with growing hesitation, making him turn around twice until he finally gave off a defeated sigh and asked Grantaire to pull over. Grantaire had no idea where they were, and their surroundings had only gotten increasingly strange-looking, more industrial than anything else. They had also crossed an unusual amount of bridges; Oslo seemed to have more water than Grantaire had ever imagined.

“Hang on a second, okay?” Enjolras ran a hand through his hair before he unbuckled his seatbelt. “I'll just have a look around; if I don't find out where we are, there has to be someone to ask at least.”

Grantaire was too tired to object, and too frustrated with never realising before that he relied on internet so much that he'd never bothered to install a GPS that didn't depend on a wi-fi connection. This was the opposite of the problem they were supposed to have in the twenty-first century; it felt like every single difficulty they encountered on this trip was a parody in which millennials were the butt of the joke.

He rested his head against the inside of the door and closed his eyes. They felt hot and sore; the fact that he'd barely gotten any sleep had already annoyed him while it had been happening last night. At least his phone had left him alone since the morning, he supposed that could count as a triumph, but then, with the way things were shaping up right now, he really was grasping at straws.

The car door on his side opened and he startled, almost tipping over the side and falling out. Enjolras, who had evidently opened the door, took a quick step back, just as spooked.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire blinked and shook his head. “Sorry, uh. Just wasn't expecting that.”

“You're tired,” Enjolras said, and he looked a little ominous like that, bathed in blue light and looking down on Grantaire. “Maybe we should just let it be for today.”

“No,” Grantaire said instantly. “No, I'm good, I'm not like, in danger of falling asleep behind the wheel. We've barely covered any distance today.”

Enjolras gave him a long, examining look. “We weren't going to drive all through the night anyway, right? So we might as well stop here. I don't want you to strain yourself.”

“I'm not.”

“You're a hypocrite, Grantaire.” Enjolras turned his head and nodded towards a large building that looked to be made mostly and mainly of glass. “We're at the harbour, although I'm not sure how we got there. I think that thing over there's a hotel, and I feel like this day isn't going to get any better. Let's call it a day.”

Grantaire had no idea anymore why he ever thought he could be the responsible part, the one that helped someone else advance instead of holding them back, in any relationship at all. “Are you sure?”

“I'm sure. Obviously, this thing where we get on quickly or at least at a reasonable pace isn't meant to be, you need rest, and we can always try to be cleverer tomorrow.”

Well, it wasn't like he had ever counted 'saying no to Enjolras' among his special skills. “All right.” He ran a hand across his face. “As you wish.”

 

He came extremely close to retracting that statement again several times as they asked for vacancies in the hotel lobby, because the hotel wasn't some convenient road side place to stay, but one of those design things that probably served gourmet breakfast in tiny portions on oversized plates and gave every bed a minimum of five pillows. Secretly, Grantaire thought they were hilarious and had always sort of wanted to stay in one, but right now, with the circumstances demanding that they did, it just seemed like another backlash to finish them off for good. It'd cost them more, it'd be terribly uncomfortable at least for Enjolras who was known for actively loathing any sort of luxury, but at this point, it felt like they were both too run down to care.

 

As it turned out when they got to their room, there weren't five pillows, there were nine. Nine pillows plus a spare one in the chest at the end of the bed. Everything in the room was shiny, everything was bordering on showy, everything about it made Grantaire wonder how Enjolras hadn't turned around and walked straight back out of the door at looking inside.

Enjolras, next to him, was wearing his most wry smile. “At least there's wi-fi.”

Enjolras laconic. There was something Grantaire had actually missed.

The room had a balcony, which Grantaire only really paid attention to as a way to smoke, but when he stepped outside, cigarettes were suddenly the last thing on his mind.

Through a gap between two buildings at the end of the street they were facing, the harbour was visible, with its jetties lit up at the sides, and the coast far beyond it, the lights of houses reflecting in the water. It would have looked beautiful by day, but by night, it was breathtaking; the kind of thing van Gogh would have had a field day with. Grantaire, dazed, stared in wonder for a few moments, then he leaned forward and closed his eyes, inhaling.

He heard Enjolras step onto the balcony behind him, but he didn't turn to look. The view was bad enough – the kind of beautiful that ached a little – and Grantaire wasn't sure he could take any more of that right now.

“Oh,” Enjolras said softly, and Grantaire smiled, glad it was dark. Enjolras went back inside, only to come back a few seconds later. “Do I need to know anything about taking pictures by night?”

Grantaire twisted around. Enjolras was standing in the doorway, holding up the camera.

“Uh, kind of a lot of things, actually,” Grantaire said, and, before he could help it, tumbled into a tirade on how to adjust the exposure control, what the light sensitivity of a film meant, and why steadying the camera rather than just holding it was important. Enjolras didn't need quite as much instruction as Grantaire gave, and seemed genuinely excited to see the finished product develop before his eyes. He was easy to enthuse, that much was known to most of Enjolras' friends, but Grantaire thought it was nice to witness it up close.

“Cosette really knew what she was doing,” Grantaire said as they closed the balcony door up once they were back in the room. “Maybe this whole thing was just a massive ploy to get you a hobby.”

“I wouldn't put it past her,” Enjolras said, pulling his suitcase off the bed. “How are we even supposed to sleep in here when most of the space is already taken up? And what do people _do_ with so many pillows?” He let his eyes sweep over them, counting.

“Talk about important life problems with their spouse as they take them off the bed,” Grantaire suggested. Enjolras squinted at him. “You know, like they do in American TV shows?” Grantaire lifted his eyebrows when Enjolras continued to look clueless. “No? It's like a trope. Seriously, it happens all the time.”

The corners of Enjolras' mouth lifted, just a little, and he walked around the bed to start taking the pillows off one side. “So, is this what I have to do to get you to talk?”

Grantaire swallowed, heat spreading in his chest. His mouth suddenly felt dry. “Well, we're not married. So you're not entitled to my life problems.” He cleared his throat. “Tragically.”

Having finished removing the pillows, Enjolras threw back the covers and sighed. “I'll let it go,” he said. “I will. Just...” He stilled for a moment, biting down on his bottom lip. “You'd let me know if something was really wrong?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, even nodding for emphasis. He had no idea if he was being honest or not. “I would.”

He never knew what to think in moments like this, whenever there was this overtone to his friends' voices when they were concerned, a subtle reminder of worse times. It was what he was actually trying to avoid, causing problems like this. There were few worse things to be known for than being the guy everyone was constantly worried about.

Thankfully, they didn't talk a lot more, both of them too preoccupied with taking advantage of having wi-fi for a night, which meant free texting and the chance to check e-mails and whatever else needed to be done. Grantaire was determined not to stress about the bed-sharing issue tonight, and even though it didn't work, he had a feeling he was stressing slightly less than yesterday, which he supposed was progress.

After Enjolras shut off the light (the light switch with its touch sensor was reminiscent of very modern pedestrian lights, completely useless and annoyingly stylish), Grantaire lay quietly with his back to him and tried not to think of anything.

“Théo Émannuel,” he finally said into the darkness as a result of that. Saying it out loud felt like a sad placeholder for the plethora of confessions he was holding in right now. Behind him, Enjolras made an inquisitive noise. “My middle names,” Grantaire added.

He could hear Enjolras laugh softly. “Go to sleep, Grantaire.”

Grantaire wouldn't, for another long while, but at this point, he had almost made peace with that.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire's slightly chubby tabby cat Javeline is the kind of cat that just. Behaves weirdly (darts through the apartment at the speed of light for no reason, hence the name; paws at nothing; randomly starts meowing at midnight; etc.), and Jehan is convinced that's because she sees things we don't. ("She can look beyond the veil, R.")  
> Only a few universities in France use Latin honours, but Enjolras probably goes to one of them. It's probably Sciences Po. He probably met Ferre there. He's probably in the UNEF. I probably have an extensive list of headcanons for E's time there that will never end up in a fic.  
> Thank you so much for reading, and for your patience. You can talk to me [here](http://lesamis.tumblr.com/) if you like.


	4. Oslo - Gothenburg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is playlist-making, souvenir-shopping, and storytelling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. ♥

Enjolras' first thought on waking up was that they didn't have a playlist for Sweden – Courfeyrac hadn't included one, thinking they'd take the most direct route. His second thought was that he had to disclose this to Grantaire. His third thought, when he turned around to do so, was that he couldn't wake a sleeping Grantaire only to bother him with early-morning-playlist-thoughts.

He rolled back over and curled up, gathering the sheets in his arms and pressing them to his chest. It didn't feel right to lie facing Grantaire – some distant social norm reminded Enjolras that he wasn't allowed to watch him, and he told himself that there was no reason he should want to, either. After all, they only had a few hours left in this hotel with its free internet, and he should make use of it while he could.

It took him barely five minutes to find a route for the day and copy the instructions into his notes so he'd have access to them, then one more minute to check his e-mail, because – surprisingly – no one had sent him anything since last night, and then he was left with nothing but the quiet breathing of Grantaire next to him on his mind.

Sometimes, he wondered if Grantaire _knew_ – if he was aware of the instincts that had nested in all of his friends and never really left, if he noticed the flinch Jehan or Bossuet would give at a throwaway, self-deprecating comment of his, if he had any idea that one of Combeferre's first questions in weekly Skype conversations with Courfeyrac had always been asking how Grantaire was doing. Enjolras wasn't immune to it; he wanted to reach out to Grantaire sometimes, just put a hand to his shoulder or take him by the arm whenever Grantaire said certain things or behaved a certain way. Muscle memory. It was a strange thing to observe in himself.

Every time he had these thoughts, as an immediate consequence, Enjolras wondered if he was doing Grantaire an injustice by thinking this way, because obviously, there was no blame with him. In fact, he was probably very aware of it, and that couldn't be easy to deal with, either.

He tried to be silent while he got out of bed and tiptoed to the bathroom – Grantaire had been tired all day yesterday, and it had been obvious, despite the effort he had put into pretending it wasn't that bad. Enjolras didn't want to risk waking him, but they both still had to shower, and it was already past nine when they had to be out of the room by eleven.

 

Grantaire was up when Enjolras came back out of the bathroom, sitting upright in the bed with his back against the headboard and fiddling with his phone. He only looked at Enjolras for the fraction of a second before all his focus went back to the screen.

“What do you think,” he said, “of eating really bland, unhealthy snacks right outside the hotel to be extra-spiteful about them charging like, one of my weekly wages for breakfast?”

“Sounds good,” Enjolras said. “Hey, is there any chance you brought an AUX cord with you?”

Now, Grantaire looked up. “Why on earth would I have done that?”

“Just asking. We don't have a Sweden playlist.”

“Huh.” Grantaire frowned. “True. We could just listen to the radio.”

“No,” Enjolras said, trying not to sound indignant. “It's an irregularity. We have one for each country.”

Grantaire opened his mouth, then closed it as he thought better of the comment, and tried again. “Right. I mean, I did bring my iPod, I guess I could just make a two-hour-playlist of ABBA's greatest hits. Lucky we're not road tripping through the UK, or I'd put you through Britpop hell.”

“Courfeyrac would, too, undoubtedly,” Enjolras said. He was still rubbing his hair dry, and caught Grantaire smiling, probably at the image he offered, when he lifted the towel. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Perish the thought,” Grantaire said and resolutely looked back at his phone. “We can just buy a cord. Gas stations have to have them.”

“I'll be making the playlist, though,” Enjolras warned. “You'll be driving. I've decided that we're actually going to make progress today.”

Grantaire still seemed amused. “Have you?”

“Yes. I'm rather determined.”

“Oh, the determined voice. Luck's going to be on our side, then. No one can resist that.”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at him. Sometimes, with Grantaire, it was wisest to just say nothing in return.

 

Honourable as Grantaire's intentions might have been, it turned out that they didn't have much in the way of snacks, and their breakfast was likely to look sparse. Surrender was out of the question, so they ate trail mix and grissini while sitting on large wooden cubes that were probably part of an art installation right outside the foyer. Grantaire was chugging sweet tea like water, the air smelled like salt, and it was still too early for the sun to be scorching. Enjolras felt serene, and he was glad to have a quieter moment for a change.

“Did you talk to Feuilly yesterday?” Grantaire asked. The cube he was sitting on was a little below Enjolras', and Grantaire blinked at the sun that met his eyes when he tried to look up.

“We texted,” Enjolras said. “I asked him if the apartment was feeling too big for him yet, and he just said someone else was crashing there every night. At this point, I feel like maybe he'd rather I didn't come back.” He had also considered asking Feuilly if he knew anything about Grantaire and the mysterious caller that seemed to give him so much trouble, but it had felt wrong to go behind his back like that. Especially when Grantaire had explicitly declined any offer to talk about it.

“Oh, don't be ridiculous,” Grantaire said. “Whoever's crashing with him probably can't offer your insight on social contract theories at three in the morning. He misses you.”

“Did he say that?”

Grantaire laughed. “Yes, Enjolras, the last time I met up with him to eat ice cream and watch our favourite Disney classics, he said that. You know what? I even think he blushed.”

“Don't get facetious. It's not a shameful thing to admit to; I've missed him.”

It couldn't come as a surprise to Grantaire, surely. Setting aside the running gag that their friends had made of implying that Feuilly and Enjolras were deeply in love with each other – to quote Courfeyrac, “Which we all know would be real a thing if Feuilly wasn't straight and Enjolras wasn't, well, _clearly disinclined_ ” – both Combeferre and Enjolras had been a little more homesick for their friends than their own rooms. They had texted regularly and always been in contact, and Courfeyrac had even visited for a weekend, as well as Éponine, who had spent a week with them. Both times had felt like a breath of fresh air. Seeing Grantaire again had felt like that, too, and Enjolras wondered only now if he was aware of it.

“Well, luckily, you'll be able to pine away in mutual confused awe of one another again soon enough,” Grantaire said. He didn't make it sound vicious, but it was hard to judge when he was looking down and strategically eating around the raisins in his trail mix. “Is that why the semester was so bad? Were you just homesick?”

The question took Enjolras by surprise. “It was definitely part of it,” he said. “I mean, our whole lives are in Paris. It was strange being torn out of routine that brutally, but I knew it was going to happen, so it wasn't exactly a shock. And it's not like we all get to see one another every day back home, either... Especially not as of late.”

“True,” Grantaire said. Enjolras couldn't see him, but there was a smile in his voice. “Weird, isn't it? Knowing that we're all drifting apart eventually. All these people growing up, getting married, moving to the countryside...”

“They moved to Vernon. That's an hour away, Grantaire.”

“Same difference!” Grantaire waved a hand. He had already been expressing his discontent when Cosette and Marius had first made the announcement, Enjolras remembered, but he'd always been careful to keep his comments on the joking side. “It might as well have been the South Pole. I can't remember the last time I saw Cosette.”

“That didn't keep her from organizing a road trip survival package for us,” Enjolras reminded him. “And that's what I meant. It's nice to be in vicinity of one another, but we don't have to be.”

“So that wasn't it?”

Enjolras frowned, remembering the original question. “Not all of it,” he said. He felt like he should add something, uncomfortably aware of the fact that his answer was still incomplete, but Grantaire only nodded and didn't press. “What about you?” Enjolras asked. He softly nudged Grantaire's side with the toe of his shoe. “You don't ever plan on leaving the city?”

“Me?” Grantaire looked up now, and then he laughed, his look evading Enjolras' again. “You can't honestly be asking that. Where would I go? Hell, even if you and all the others were to scatter across the country – or Europe, or the world – Paris would be stuck with me.” He paused to drink before he added, “I'm afraid they wouldn't have me anywhere else.”

 

They both had money to get rid of before they'd cross the border, because most exchange booths didn't like to take coins, so their stop at the gas station took a little longer and resulted in a little more shopping than anticipated. Enjolras remembered while they were trying to spend their change that before Combeferre and him had left Paris, the others had implored them to bring back souvenirs, so he enlisted Grantaire to help him look for some. Part of him felt guilty about doing this at a gas station, especially since Bergen had an absurd amount of gift shops, but given the circumstances, there was a chance he'd be forgiven.

“What do you say? Just buy ten of these and be done with it?” Grantaire was holding up a troll figurine, probably meant to serve as a paperweight. He frowned when he eyed it more closely. “You know what, I was kidding, but Bossuet would probably really like this.”

“Get one, then,” Enjolras said, narrowing his eyes at the troll. It looked ugly and mischievous, not like something anyone would really like, but Bossuet had a special fondness for things everyone else deemed terrible, normally claiming they just needed a little love. “I trust your judgement.”

“Hear, hear,” Grantaire said, and sauntered off to the checkout before Enjolras could reply.

Enjolras found a knitted hat for Joly – not the best gift to bring home in June, but Joly had complained about cold ears at least once for single winter that Enjolras had known him, and the pattern suited him – and a small glass vase intended for tealights that Jehan would probably like. Together with more snacks and the AUX cord, he had to pay just about everything he had left down to his last coin, which was convenient. He hadn't actively disliked it while he'd been doing it, but the thought of not having to constantly convert to euro in his head so he'd know how much money he was actually spending felt liberating. It was the small things, he assumed.

Grantaire was waiting in the car, with the road map spread over the dashboard as he scrolled through the instructions on Enjolras' phone and tried to follow them on the map. “So we're making for Gothenburg first, then Malmö, then Copenhagen? All in one day?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, reaching over to tap Copenhagen on the map. He'd memorised most of the route already; he didn't feel up to another traffic disaster. “We can spend the night in Denmark. Unless everything goes amazingly and we still have time to spare, then we could actually cross over into Germany and stay in Kiel, maybe, or Lübeck...”

“Right,” Grantaire said and started folding up the map. “So we're being ambitious. I'm glad.”

“Don't you think it's too early for sarcasm?”

“I'm appalled and offended,” Grantaire said, and even looked it a little. “Fact is; you've been so stressed that I've missed that, ambitious you. Which, you know. Is normally just you.”

Enjolras couldn't think of a reply, so he pulled in his knees, resting them against the edge of the dashboard, and started going through his phone for music.

He liked to minimise the amount of blatantly consumerist items he owned, and as a result, his phone became all the more important – ironic, probably, but difficult to avoid. All the music he owned was kept on his phone, and even though he liked to think it was quite an extensive library, the small number of artists he actually knew were Swedish narrowed the selection down considerably.

It took him a long time to come up with a setup he was happy with, to Grantaire's great amusement.

“Honestly,” he said when Enjolras complained about having had to scrap a tentative song order for the third time, “I never thought I'd say this to you, but I had no idea you cared this much.”

“About music?” Enjolras glanced at him. “Always.”

“Really?” Grantaire shook his head. “How did I not know this?”

“How indeed,” Enjolras murmured. It was one of the things he was probably most fussy about, and a lot of people knew that solely because this specific character trait coloured negative experiences they'd had with Enjolras. Courfeyrac had once declared him the worst music snob in the history of people not even caring very much about art, which might have been offensive if it hadn't been rather accurate. “You have to be the only person who knows me that's surprised by this.”

“Come on,” Grantaire said, scepticism clear in his tone. “Who looks at you and thinks, yeah, this guy definitely has a well-organised iTunes library?”

“Why?” Enjolras looked up at him. “What do people think when they look at me?”

Grantaire snorted, and, when Enjolras kept looking at him, waved a hand and said, “Not that.”

“Music isn't the monopole of the artistically inclined, you know,” Enjolras argued. “Think about it. Throughout all of history, any culture, regardless of differences in class or level of education, music has been present. Something that fundamentally human isn't anyone's monopole.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said slowly, “are you a music-lover on the basis of idealistic reasons?”

“That's the opposite of what I just said,” Enjolras sighed and turned his attention back to the playlist, which was still in the works. If he kept going at this pace, it wouldn't be done by the time they crossed the borders.

 

It was. Enjolras completed their Sweden-playlist with still nine kilometres on Norwegian ground for them to cover, and did his best not to be obviously triumphant about it. He failed.

“Do you want me to say it?” Grantaire said, trying to watch the road and Enjolras fidgeting with the radio and cord at the same time. “Fine, I underestimated your DJ-ing abilities.”

“You don't even know that yet, we haven't listened to it,” Enjolras said. “Either way, I wasn't offended.”

“That was you not being offended?”

“I wasn't offended. I was, perhaps, slightly unhappy with your obvious surprise about the fact that I have an interest in something other than politics.”

Grantaire frowned, keeping his eyes forward now. “Right,” he said. “I might have been a little more awful about that than I had to be. It wasn't even genuine surprise, really. I know you're passionate about – everything. Music isn't a stretch at all.”

Enjolras restrained himself from saying _So why?_ , because he had to occasionally remind himself that not everyone was able to say outright what they thought. He had to accept that anyway, there was no point on dwelling on it.

“Do really you think I see you that way?” Grantaire looked at him now, just quickly, and his frown hadn't gone away. “As some sort of social justice robot?”

“Well, thank you for putting that term on the table,” Enjolras said, trying to keep the agitation from his voice. He breathed before he continued. “Honestly? I don't know how you see me, and I won't make you explain yourself. It gets frustrating sometimes, knowing that a lot of people have this one-dimensional image of me, and with you, I can't always tell if I should count you among those people or not.”

He'd never thought to be so blatant about it before, but the topic had never come up between them. Enjolras had given it some thought in the past, lots of it, even. Possibly a little too much to seem casual about it now.

Grantaire said nothing for a while, and when Enjolras looked over at him, he was grinning. Not happily. It was that sardonic grin of his; Enjolras was so much more familiar with it than he wanted to be. “Jesus Christ.”

“Right,” Enjolras said, resigned. He didn't really understand why he'd had to open his mouth in the first place when they'd been doing okay for almost two days. “Don't say it; you think I'm entitled.”

“Are you kidding me?” Grantaire shook his head, still grinning. “That's the opposite of what I think. I'm just amazed by my own ability to be literally the worst version of myself all the fucking time. Shit.”

“Can you just say what you mean?” Enjolras said. He didn't have the energy for this, and it wasn't good for either of them. It shouldn't be so difficult for two people to just _talk_.

Grantaire was quiet for longer now, one finger scratching the cover of the steering wheel. “Sorry,” he said after a while, shaking his head. “I'm, uh – I'm trying to figure out a way to say this stuff without sounding like I'm trying to make it about me.”

“Just say it,” Enjolras said, and he tried to sound gentle, but he'd never been good at getting that right. He wasn't trying to pick a fight, and he wasn't sure if Grantaire realised that.

“I'm—” Grantaire frowned and paused. He breathed before starting again. “Sometimes I forget that people actually only – hear what I say. You know? That they don't get, like, the little asterisk that tells them, 'by the way, he doesn't really want to put you down and actually thinks pretty highly of you.'”

“If only,” Enjolras said quietly. “That would make a lot of things easier. Not just for you; I know the feeling.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire bit his bottom lip. “I, uh. I'd try to explain why I keep saying that kind of shit anyway, but I wasn't going to make this about my own issues, so. Here's the thing.”

It took him a few seconds to continue, and Enjolras listened to the bars of his own playlist, focusing on every beat. He wasn't sure why this conversation was making him feel on edge, or perhaps that was the wrong word – his chest felt warm, his palms were sweaty, but it wasn't only unpleasant. Maybe they really did have a chance of talking through some things that had been pushed down, left out in the open and unresolved for too long.

“I know you're more than ideals and activism,” Grantaire said, letting out a breath. “That should go without saying, shouldn't it? I mean, just, objectively, even if we didn't know each other, I'd know that, because people don't work that way, right? But it's also pretty impossible to spend a day with you and not realise that you're – you're _so_ not stoic enough to be that single-minded, statuesque politician cliché. You're – I mean, you care so much about everything, the mere assumption that you'd limit yourself to only one thing to care about is ridiculous. I know you're not like that, you're not like that at all.” He frowned. “Now I'm telling you what you are. I don't think I can get this right.”

“Perhaps not,” Enjolras said. He smiled in spite of himself. “Honestly, though? This has to be the most sincere thing you've ever said to me.”

“Hm.” Grantaire cleared his throat. “Doesn't say much about my qualities as a friend, does it.”

“I think it's rather telling.”

“Right.”

Enjolras was still watching him, but Grantaire didn't even glance over. The silence was comfortable, though, so Enjolras leaned back, stretched out his legs, and enjoyed having some peace of mind for the first time in too long.

 

They made it across the border without being stopped at customs, which was lucky, because Enjolras didn't actually know if they had anything to declare – did a possibly cursed troll figurine count as a prohibited item? Did Grantaire's single box of cigarettes?

“Strange,” Enjolras said half to himself a few minutes after they'd crossed, “to think this is the first time I've left Norway in five months. It wasn't exactly an amazing time, but didn't feel that long at all.”

“One country closer to home,” Grantaire said. “And it's already been two hours of driving without interruptions. I think the world might just be trying to cater to your wishes for once.”

“Well, we still have one or two borders to cross today.” Enjolras watched the road signs pass by. They'd have to stay consistently on the same road until Malmö, which was still hours away. “But I'm starting to be optimistic.”

This time, Grantaire didn't mention the possibility of a jinx, but he wouldn't have been wrong to. The drive was peaceful for the next few hours, Grantaire asked about some song choices, Enjolras accidentally experimented with motion blur by taking pictures out of the window while they drove, and around noon, they had made such good time that Enjolras suggested driving through Gothenburg's centre and stopping for lunch rather than just passing the city by.

“What?” he said when Grantaire asked twice if he was really okay with an extra stop. “I can be spontaneous.”

“I'll add that to the list of things that apparently shouldn't have surprised me about you,” Grantaire deadpanned, but he seemed happy about the detour, drumming his fingers over the gear stick and watching out for signs pointing to the centre.

Gothenburg was nothing like Bergen or even Oslo – from the road, it looked more structured, a little more industrial. It occurred to Enjolras that he'd never been to Sweden before today, and that he might have fallen victim to how easy it was to write the country off as being so similar to Norway that it wasn't worth seeing one if you already knew the other. The assumption seemed completely ridiculous now. Everything here was made of harder lines and sturdier foundations, and it might have been the longing for home talking, but Enjolras even thought the overall impression of it was a little more French.

The roads became narrower the closer they came to the core of the city, and it started bothering Enjolras as soon as there were more people than cars around. They hadn't really done this so far, driven near pedestrian zones, and Enjolras had been more than happy to avoid it for reasons that were bright and clear in his mind now – here he was, eyes skirting between the windows to make sure the sides of the road were clear, even though coming here had been his own idea.

He was angry, beneath the sudden anxiety. That was the price of feeling comfortable; all that false security. The deceptive feeling that you could deal with things which you normally knew would overwhelm you.

He breathed through it, tried to just look forward, but they weren't close to anything that seemed to resemble a parking lot, and Grantaire wasn't going fast at all, but he was still going _too fast_. “Could you slow down?”

Grantaire glanced over at him, already going more slowly. “Sure.”

It didn't help. The lanes were so narrow, and there were people everywhere, so close to the street, and right next to them, people were on their bikes – Enjolras had always hated that about traffic during the warmer months, all those bikes in the streets, and the cars driving around them with far too little distance – and there was someone right now, a girl looking to cross the street, and she was walking right toward them and she wasn't slowing down, had she even looked over here, Grantaire had to stop, but he wasn't slowing down or steering over to the side, he had to _stop_ –

“Enjolras!” Grantaire's voice cut through the moment; he didn't look over. “Enjolras, hey.”

Grantaire wasn't looking at Enjolras, instead staring forward to keep watching the road, but his eyes were wide, and Enjolras realised that he'd been talking out loud – not even talking, he had shouted those last few words, the echo of them shrill in his ears suddenly.

“Sorry,” he breathed, and they passed the girl that was standing right on the edge of the road, waiting for them to drive by. “I'm sorry, that was – I didn't mean to yell.” His fingers were shaking in his lap; he hadn't even noticed the tremor until now.

“It's fine,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras heard him, but only vaguely, as if through a veil. “It's fine, okay? I'm going slowly. You're all right, everything's all right.”

Enjolras closed his eyes, pressing his head against the back of his seat, and breathed. This was awful. Nothing had even _happened_. Grantaire knew that. Enjolras should have known, too, and yet – rational thought didn't come too easily to him in moments like that.

Grantaire said nothing for a while, his eyes darting out of the window again and again, and it took Enjolras a second to understand he was looking for a place to pull over.

“We don't have to stop—”

“We're not stopping,” Grantaire said, his voice surprisingly steady. “Just a break, okay? We'll just stop for lunch. That's what we were here for in the first place.”

Enjolras had no idea what to reply. His chest still felt too tight, he wanted air, but couldn't move to open a window. Grantaire pulled over at the next opportunity, not saying anything the whole time, although Enjolras wasn't sure he would have noticed if he had spoken, because all his attention had turned inwards.

This was why he avoided it; cars, driving, all of it – especially within city limits. Any city. Any city with small roads and large pedestrian zones. It was so easy to avoid it in Paris, where they had trains and buses (although even buses could be stressful) and no need for a car at all, so easy that Enjolras had almost forgotten this feeling and how easily it could be triggered.

He felt ridiculous. There was no reason for losing it like this, and most of the time, he knew that, and could rationally convince his body of knowing that as well. The moments where he couldn't made him angry; they were reminders he didn't need. He also felt exhausted, which in turn made him feel annoyed, because he hadn't even done anything exhausting, and he'd been fine just five minutes ago.

“All right,” Grantaire said. He unbuckled, and looked a little lost suddenly. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yes.” It wasn't a lie. Enjolras wasn't too eager to get back onto the road yet, but he could breathe again. It had only been a moment. “Again, I'm... really sorry.”

“No,” Grantaire said, shaking his head, but he didn't seem to know what else to say. “No,” he repeated. Then he looked at Enjolras for a moment, biting his lip, and finally opened the door to get out of the car.

The air outside was warmer than inside the car, so it didn't have quite the clearing effect Enjolras had hoped for, but it was good to be on his feet nonetheless. Grantaire was smoking, leaning against the door on the driver's side.

“I should have warned you, at least,” Enjolras said. “I would have, if I'd expected this to happen, and I should have expected it. I thought – I mean, I'm not entirely sure what I thought.”

“Please don't worry, nothing happened,” Grantaire said softly. Enjolras couldn't tell if he was trying to be calm or just feeling faint. “That is, if, uh. If you're really okay.”

“I'm okay,” Enjolras assured him. “But I know it's not exactly great to have your passenger suddenly start screaming, especially when you've had no warning at all. In hindsight, I really think I should have seen this coming.”

Grantaire was watching him, obviously weighing out his words. It was strange to see him so careful about what he said, so deliberate – so unlike himself, really. “Do you want to talk about it? I won't make you,” he added quickly. “Only if you want.”

“I'd rather not.” Grantaire was already nodding, but Enjolras still felt he had to explain. “It's not like I have a dark secret, or that I don't trust you, or that I'm – traumatised, or anything. I mean, probably, in the medical sense, that's what it's called, but I can talk about it without getting upset. I just rather wouldn't.”

“All right.”

“Again, not because of you. Honestly, it's a little embarrassing, so it's not a story I like to flaunt.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Enjolras closed his eyes and breathed, then, opening them again, he looked around. “Where exactly are we again?”

 

As it turned out, they were on the Kungsportsavenyen, which neither of them knew anything about but the name they'd taken from the road map. If not for the dense traffic and mass of pedestrians, it would have been a rather broad boulevard, vaguely reminiscent of the Champs-Élysées in its structure and build, and there were cafés and little shops all along the side of it, which, really looking at it without the stress from earlier, made the street almost charming.

There was an Irish Pub near their parking spot (which, as Grantaire had pointed out, probably wasn't an actual parking spot and might get them in trouble if they stayed for longer than an hour) that didn't seem overrun, and Enjolras felt like walking, so they got fries in newspaper cones, Enjolras indulged in the luxury of using his card to pay, and they walked up the boulevard as Grantaire made up stories about landmarks and Enjolras ignored the lingering sting in his feet.

A bookstore caught his eye once they'd walked for a little, and, remembering his souvenir-promise, he had a flash of inspiration. Marius had learned Swedish at some point, he was quite sure, and Feuilly was grateful for books of pretty much any language he had a vague access to, so they emerged with a reprimand for walking around the store with bags of fries, a collection of Astrid Lindgren's work for Marius and a calligraphy set for Feuilly ten minutes later. Enjolras was strangely pleased with himself.

“Hey,” Grantaire pointed a little ahead of them, once they kept walking up the boulevard, “look. Rainbow-friendly museum.”

Enjolras blinked and then frowned at the flags that were hoisted in front of a rather venerable-looking building. “That's unusual.”

Grantaire shrugged. “Who knows? I have no idea how this stuff works here. Maybe in Sweden every day's Pride.” He grinned at Enjolras. “And we might be able to make that work for us. What do you think, should I go in and try for some sort of bisexual discount?”

“Ironically,” Enjolras said, “I think I'd pay you not to try that.”

“Buzzkill.” It took exactly a second for Grantaire's attention to latch onto the next thing that stood out, something that Enjolras had noticed exactly five minutes earlier and that was very hard to overlook if you weren't engrossed in waxing poetic about made-up Swedish architects.

At the end of the boulevard, right in front of another large building that might be a theatre or museum – there were rainbow flags there, too, Enjolras noticed – was a large fountain built around a statue that towered impressively over the square. Grantaire had already walked ahead, too curious to stay at Enjolras' pace, and was reading an inscription plate when Enjolras caught up.

“So apparently Poseidon's become a city landmark for literally no reason at all,” Grantaire said, glancing up from the plate. “You'd think people needed a reason to put a three-metre-sculpture of Poseidon in the middle of their city, but not here.”

“Well, it is right by the shore,” Enjolras said. “They would have depended on calm seas here to survive, historically.”

“Right,” Grantaire said, still staring up. “And I forgot that Sweden, as everyone knows, was a popular stronghold of Hellenic polytheism.”

“At a certain time in Europe, every country tried to be,” Enjolras said. He sat down on one of the steps leading up to the fountain, shielding his eyes from the sunlight with one hand while trying to eat with the other. “How old is it?”

“Put up in 1931. Sweden was late to the Greek party.” Grantaire sat down across from him, adjusting his position until he was successfully shielding Enjolras from the sun.

“Thanks.”

Grantaire made a vague, non-committal noise and went back to his fries. He kept looking up at the sculpture as he ate, and finally asked Enjolras, “Do you happen to have a pen with you?”

Enjolras always had a pen with him. He almost always needed one; for writing down ideas, being able to lend it to others, signing documents, just having something to occupy his fingers with. He dug around in his pocket, retrieved a black fineliner, and handed it over to Grantaire.

“Thanks.” Grantaire uncapped it, sticking the cap on the other end, and looked up at the statue again before he started to draw thin, black lines across the back of his hand.

He could have used the newspaper, Enjolras thought, if he'd been patient enough to finish his lunch first. It was exactly the kind of pen that took days to wash off, but Grantaire probably didn't care, so Enjolras didn't mention it and contented himself with watching.

Grantaire had always been more photographer than traditional artist, as far as Enjolras knew, but when he was in the mood, he doodled little geometrical designs on every available surface. Two of Bahorel's tattoos had been designed by him, which gave Grantaire regular opportunities to make jokes about having permanently sullied Bahorel's otherwise flawless appearance. Right now, he was drawing a circular pattern of seashells, abstract and oversimplified, that soon covered the back of his hand.

“Tattoo idea?” Enjolras asked when Grantaire critically frowned at his finished work.

“Possibly,” Grantaire said, dropping his hand back in his lap. “Maybe for someone I really, really hate.” He put the cap back on the pen, and when he handed it back to Enjolras, Enjolras took his other hand instead, unfolding the grip of his fingers and inspecting the pattern more closely.

“It's nice,” he said. Grantaire's hand was dry and warm, and the black ink had bled into the creases of his skin, ruining the design a little. “Bahorel might be willing.”

Grantaire didn't answer immediately. His voice sounded strange when he finally did. “He really might,” he said quietly. “He'd say yes to a My Little Pony design. I don't think he cares anymore at this point.”

“Hm.” Enjolras spread Grantaire's fingers apart and ran his thumb along them, tracing the lines that branched out over Grantaire's knuckles. It had taken Grantaire less than five minutes to draw them up, but the lines were careful and deliberate, despite being a little smudged. Enjolras found himself holding on to Grantaire's hand and inspecting it for a little longer for no reason in particular, before he realised that he was keeping Grantaire from eating, and let go. “Oh, sorry.”

Grantaire was looking at him, Enjolras realised when he tore his eyes away from their hands, looking at him like Enjolras had somehow spooked him, and Enjolras internally flinched at the idea that this might be one of those times where he'd accidentally crossed a line without noticing it. He used touch instinctively; it helped him bridge distances to others, break the ice, find an anchor of sorts. And he was aware that it didn't work that way for everyone, but when it came to his friends, he was rather liberal with his touch simply as a matter of course – he was familiar with them and their boundaries, and he stuck to them by instinct. Had he really never established that kind of understanding with Grantaire?

They looked at one another for an uncomfortable amount of time, Grantaire wonderstruck, Enjolras trying to figure him out. Finally, Grantaire blinked and pulled his hands in, shaking his head lightly.

“You know, uh,” he said, in a tone that sounded forced, “for a while, I didn't drive either.”

Enjolras frowned at him, trying to keep up with the change of topic and ready to stop Grantaire in his tracks. This wasn't something he was too keen on discussing.

“I'm not saying that to make you tell,” Grantaire said quickly, “Just – because you said it was embarrassing, and, you know. Doesn't have to be. Lots of people hate driving.”

It was very unlikely that they were talking about remotely similar situations, but the gesture was kind. “When was that?”

“When I'd only just gotten my licence,” Grantaire said. “I got it, and then... well, I just didn't drive. After the test, I tried it once on my own, and I hated everything about it, because in all honesty I had no idea why I'd even passed the test. I was a shitty driver then. Slow on the hand-eye coordination, too many things at once to keep in mind, et cetera.”

“You?” Enjolras frowned. “Bad hand-eye coordination?” Grantaire liked to give off the opposite impression, but he had eerie, cat-like reflexes, and his movements weren't always elegant, but they were always sure. Everyone knew that – well, all his friends, and those who had gone up against him in the ring.

“It was a process,” Grantaire said, amused rather than defensive. “Anyway, the whole thing was sort of spooky to me, so I didn't do it. Like, I'd miss the bus in the morning and just take my bike to school, no matter the weather. Avoidance at all costs, I believe the strategy's called.”

“Yes, I'm familiar,” Enjolras said with a wry smile. “What happened to change it?”

“Uh, do you want the detailed version or the moral-of-the-story version?”

Enjolras tilted his head slightly, trying to catch Grantaire's gaze. “What do you think?”

“Right.” Grantaire laughed a little. “So, you know that friend I had back in Valence, Sophie? I've probably mentioned her before?”

It took a few seconds for Enjolras to catch on. “...Floréal?”

“Ah. Man, did she hate when I called her that. But yeah, her.”

“Isn't she the one you stopped being friends with because she started an apprenticeship at a bank?”

“No need to sound judgey. Name one friend of yours that works at a bank.”

“I wasn't judging at all. Continue.”

“It was more complicated than that, anyway. But for a while, we were pretty close, that was during the last year of school, and her parents sort of hated me – no reason, I wasn't even that bad then, your average teenager. We used to do all sorts of stuff to wind them up; I think she liked being rebellious, and one time, we sort of – did something stupid?” He frowned, unhappy with the phrasing. “Not anything dangerous, it just wasn't a very smart thing to do. And pointless, there was honestly no reason behind it except, I don't know, being young and sort of overly romantic. It doesn't really matter; the result was that her parents took away all her car privileges.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “I think you just skipped over some crucial parts of the story.”

“Well.” Grantaire rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess the point of telling this was to embarrass myself, so. Uh, you know how I sort of have a vaguely lower middle class kind of background?”

“You've never really put it that way before.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said, “for obvious reasons. But I do, and so did she. And we used to make fun of really rich people a lot, just out of bitterness, I guess, and one night while we were talking she said something about how if we had a lot of money, we'd probably drive to Saint-Tropez just to have breakfast, and I was like, well, you _can_ drive, and we could pool our funds for gas, so technically there's no reason for us to not just... do that.”

“And you did?”

Grantaire smiled, but there was something rueful about it. “We did. Terrible idea, obviously, especially at three in the morning, but it was nice while it lasted. The roads were clear, we got to watch the sunrise, we had a good time.” He tilted his head a little. “Then Flor's mum called and everything sort of fell apart from there. She got a twenty-minute lecture, Weasley-style, _no note, car gone_ , et cetera. The bottom line was, her parents wouldn't give her the car anymore, and I pretty much got barred from her house.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. That was that. And since I was partly responsible for the whole thing, I offered to drive her wherever she needed to go, so at that point I sort of had to get over it or I'd be, like, the shittiest irresponsible friend ever. Once I really had to, that kind of broke the spell.” He shrugged. “So as far as embarrassing, driving-related stories go, I'm pretty hard to one-up.”

Enjolras watched him. His silhouette was dark from the contre-jour position he was sitting in, and he still had that same hunched posture as always, and Enjolras wanted to tell him how unreasonably regretful it made him feel to hear about this version of Grantaire that he hadn't gotten to know, the version that would unflinchingly throw all caution to the wind to make someone smile, that would force himself to overcome any anxieties the second a friend needed help. Grantaire was kind, and one of the most devoted people Enjolras had ever met when it was in his power to be, but there was a lightness in this story that Enjolras had never seen in him. Grantaire, carefree. It was hard to imagine even now, when he was actually doing well for all they knew.

He was sure he meant to say something of the kind, but the moment passed, and it had been silent for too long all of a sudden. Enjolras said the first thing on his mind.

“I don't really plan on leaving, either.” He looked down at his hands, then at the fountain, then, once he could bring himself to, at Grantaire again. “Unless something completely overwhelmed me with opportunity, I wouldn't think of leaving Paris. Permanently, I mean.”

Grantaire looked surprised for a moment, and then it was back, that slightly bitter smile of his that always seemed to rub Enjolras up the wrong way. “Please. You can't honestly think you're going to stay in one place for the next ten years. As soon as you graduate, you'll have people bending over backwards for a chance to work with you, and they won't just be in Paris.”

“Why do you think that?” Enjolras shook his head. “I'm not a model student. At this point I'm lucky to have a summer internship.”

“But you're as bad as Combeferre with your studying. You take it so seriously, sometimes I worry your head's going to explode during finals week. Not to mention the fact that you only just spent five months in misery just because a semester abroad is recommended in your record.”

“That's _studying_ ,” Enjolras said. “That's not nearly all there's to it. Grantaire, I've been arrested, and it wasn't exactly a thing that happened on the quiet. I've got my name signed to more than one publication that's been deemed 'controversial.' The DCRI isn't going to ring people like that up with a job offer.”

“Why, I didn't know you were even considering espionage as an option, Enjolras.”

“I'm not, that's why—” Grantaire laughed, and Enjolras sighed. “You should do something to indicate you're joking once in a while.”

“Can you imagine, though?” At least Grantaire's smile was sincere again. “Ten years down the road, and all the others have like, moved to the States or taken a terribly paid but satisfying job in the south, and we're the only ones left in Paris. Just picture that.”

The imperative was completely rhetorical, but on a whim, Enjolras tried anyway. It felt impossible. He knew it was inevitably going to happen, a part of life, that all of them wouldn't always be as closely linked and drawn together as they were now – as Grantaire had said, that had already started. But he didn't like to think of it while it was still in some distance. For some reason, though, the thought that Grantaire would be there – just there, whatever he'd be doing, he'd be making it through somehow and maybe he'd even be able to find something worth appreciating in that, he almost always did – felt good. Maybe it was because the thought that Grantaire could picture a future for himself, even only in a joke, even only distantly, was incredibly reassuring, but Enjolras also liked the thought of him simply being there, in Paris, someone for the others to come back to. In this distant, completely hypothetical future, Grantaire wouldn't be going anywhere and Enjolras was a little surprised when he realised that he wouldn't have it any other way.

Hypothetically.

He snapped out of it and quickly shook his head. “Too many unknown variables. I'm not even sure yet what I'll be doing next year, ten years is such a stretch.”

“Right,” Grantaire nodded, “weird situation to ask that question in. I mean, technically, right now we can't even say for sure what country we'll be in tomorrow.”

“In that regard, we should at least make a spirited attempt,” Enjolras said, bunching up the paper cone that was now empty. “Ready to leave?”

Grantaire nodded, but his eyes were hesitant. “If you're good to go?”

Enjolras smiled. “I'm good.” Earlier, he really had thought for a second that he would be okay with them driving straight on, but he was glad about the break now. Breathing a little and stretching his legs for a bit had been the smartest choice after all.

Grantaire grabbed his bottle of tea – Enjolras was starting to think it was just a permanent accessory by now – and scrambled to his feet. Once he stood, he offered Enjolras a hand that Enjolras didn't quite need to stand up but took anyway, and they walked in comfortable silence back to the car.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things I care about too much: Enjolras and Feuilly as the kind of friends that admire and respect each other so much that they sort of awkwardly stay at a distance but talk about the other like they hung the moon; Enjolras and Feuilly sharing a flat and somehow still managing to maintain said awkward distance (to the great amusement of everyone else).  
> No scrapbook this time because the day isn't over yet - Enjolras' messed up motion blur polaroids to follow next chapter. :)  
> I'll try to get the next bit done a little more quickly! Until then, thank you so much for reading, and if you've commented, I love you. Obligatory tumblr link [here](http://lesamis.tumblr.com/).


	5. Gothenburg - Copenhagen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm reveals previously unknown weaknesses of Combeferre's car, Marius saves the day, and Courfeyrac almost manages to ruin it.

If Enjolras took any notice of the way Grantaire watched him like a hawk as they drove out of Gothenburg, he was graceful enough not to let it show. Grantaire was thankful for that. He couldn't quite help the instinct to stare, even though he wasn't sure if it was in concern for Enjolras or in admiration for that display of iron self-control from earlier.

Enjolras had panicked for exactly the fraction of a second, and then he'd taken that anxiety and bottled it right up. Next to that much composure, Grantaire felt very small.

It didn't help that he was awful at offering comfort. He was always desperate to be of some use, and it physically pained him to know his friends weren't well, but taking care of others didn't come as naturally to him as it did to people like Combeferre, who always kept a level head, no matter the stakes, or Jehan, for whom genuine sympathy was second nature. Grantaire dabbled in caring for people; he was a fumbler. Enjolras certainly deserved better than that in a moment of weakness.

He had done what had seemed logically consequent and texted Courfeyrac, asking him to get in touch with Enjolras later today. If there was ever a good reason to spend money on texting abroad, surely this qualified. It may not even be necessary, because Enjolras seemed to have recovered already, but it couldn't hurt for him to talk to someone whose general disposition was cheerful.

In the passenger's seat, Enjolras showed no signs at all of being shaken. He sat there curled up with his knees pushed against the dashboard, leaning his head against the B-pillar, occasionally tugging on a stray strand of hair as if he was annoyed with it, looking picturesque as ever. It was easy to remember the warm weight of his hand against Grantaire's, like this, when he was so luminous. Grantaire pushed the thought away.

“So, question,” Grantaire said into the silence in an effort to sound light. “What's the first thing you'll do when you get home?”

Enjolras hummed, thinking of a response. “Sleep,” he said then, and looked at Grantaire when he laughed. “What?”

“I don't know.” Grantaire bit down on his lip to stop grinning. “It's been so long since you've been home, I thought it'd be something less basic, along the lines of travelling to appreciate home... Kiss Parisian ground, hug the tree in front of your apartment building, anything along those lines.”

Enjolras thought again. “I think I might make a point of chatting up strangers just to speak French with people.”

“We're speaking French right now.”

“Yes, but that's different. I miss... I miss going up to the counter of a fast food place and making an order without having to switch languages. You know? I want to just speak my mother tongue without thinking about it and have everyone, even most strangers, understand me. You think that's strange,” he said, a close eye on Grantaire's expression. “But it's a luxury. I'd never realised that for myself before.”

“Hm.” Grantaire considered that for a moment. “Did Feuilly ever tell you about the time I embarrassed myself at an airport kiosk?”

“I don't think so.”

“Okay, so. Our second flight home came in early, right? I don't think we ever mentioned that, but we were like, twenty minutes ahead of schedule, and no one was there to pick us up yet. And we were so messed up; Feuilly was asleep on his feet, and I was starving...” Grantaire smiled at the memory. “You know. Jetlag stuff. And I went to a kiosk, I just wanted a chocolate bar or something, and mind you, that was at Orly, so that tiny store was full of French newspapers and French brands, and I looked that kiosk guy straight in the eye and ordered in English.”

Enjolras laughed. Grantaire felt his eyes on him. “I'm glad you told me that. This way, I'm sure not to repeat your mistakes.”

“It was an honest mistake, though! And the guy, I mean, I have sort of a semi-obvious French accent in English, and he just stared at me, because, you know, _he_ was French, _I_ was obviously French, we were in _France_ , Feuilly had witnessed the whole thing and he was in tears and – it was just a disaster.” Grantaire exhaled. “So, my point was, I'd never thought about it like that before, but I see where you're coming from.”

Enjolras was quiet for a while, but there was a smile in his voice when he finally spoke. “It's good to hear that from you.”

The words were kind, an attempt to bridge a gap between them, and they hurt. Grantaire couldn't come up with a reply.

“I'm really looking forward to the ABC, too,” Enjolras said, probably unable to endure the silence now. “That was one of the worst things about being in Bergen, there was nothing to even out all that theory from class.”

“Norway doesn't do student clubs?”

“No, they do, but it's not for me to take a leading position in them, and...”

“And you're not the best at subordination,” Grantaire said. He hoped it came out without judgement, the way he meant for it to.

“I'm really not,” Enjolras admitted. “Not because I question anyone's authority, not at all, but I know I'm better at organising and making decisions than at carrying things out, and – it makes me feel useless, being stuck doing things I'm not good at. I miss being in charge of something that I think matters, something practical to sink my teeth into.”

“Makes sense,” Grantaire said, even though he wasn't familiar with the sentiment. He was happy to leave responsibilities to others wherever possible, but it was one of the most incredible things about Enjolras that he shouldered them with grace, and genuinely saw them as opportunities. “Was it hard to hand over the reins to Courfeyrac?”

“No.” The answer came immediately, without hesitation. “I know you got on perfectly with him in charge, and I didn't doubt for a second that you would. Me wanting to get back to work is purely selfish.”

“That makes it sound like there's nothing admirable about it.”

“Are you going to tell me that there is?”

“Well—” Grantaire frowned, trying to organise his thoughts. Enjolras was surprising sometimes, when you talked to him. He always kept everything at once in mind. “No. Because, you know, you don't have to hear that from me. It was just strange, you made it sound like the whole altruism-thing was just a scam and it was all about having a project to keep you busy.”

“Ah.” Enjolras shifted in his seat. “I didn't mean it that way. I'd probably be headed to Wall Street if I did. But I—” He was silent for a moment. “I feel a little bad for being so restless about leaving something behind that gets on fine without me. It's not about me, but I can't help it, I get anxious about things that might happen in my absence.” He looked over at Grantaire. “You've never felt that way?”

“Me?” Grantaire laughed. “I deliver food and stock shelves. I've literally never had to be afraid of things falling apart just because I'm gone.”

Enjolras went quiet. Internally, Grantaire slapped himself, because this was just unnecessary.

“That wasn't meant to – I wasn't mocking you. But you realise that you're being too hard on yourself, right?”

“You've said so before,” Enjolras reminded him. “I think we agreed that our positions on that weren't easy to reconcile.”

“I'm just saying you're allowed to actually enjoy what you do,” Grantaire said, but he sounded dejected. He was, in a way. This was always an issue with Enjolras, the abnegation that no one but himself demanded of him, his unwillingness to accept that something he didn't have to push himself for was still worth doing. Maybe Grantaire could do with a little more of that kind of discipline, but Enjolras could certainly do with less.

“I know that.” Enjolras sighed and curled up more tightly, his knees against his chest. Grantaire wondered how he had never noticed before that Enjolras seemed to have trouble sitting like a normal person for extended periods of time. “It's not enjoying ABC work that I feel guilty for, it's feeling dependent of it. And it's not even guilt, necessarily, just... it's not the way it should be. The ABC doesn't exist for me.”

“Well, obviously, but – I mean. In the same vein, you don't exist for the ABC.”

Enjolras made a soft, undefined noise, like a hum, and turned his head to the window. He didn't say the words, but Grantaire still felt like he heard them – _Don't I?_

He'd never say that out loud. Grantaire suddenly wondered if he really struggled with this, if he felt selfish and dependent at the same time just because he was good at something and enjoyed doing it. Calling him lucky felt like an almost preposterous thing to have done so often.

 

They didn't quite manage to pick up a conversation after that. The quiet wasn't as bad as it could have been, because Enjolras' skills when it came to making playlists really were incredible, and just listening to the music was enough of an experience to be distracting. Most of the songs seemed to fit the mood, too – Enjolras had picked out a lot of slow songs, some of them almost melancholic, and they'd been on a clear road since Gothenburg, a stark contrast to the stuffed streets in what Grantaire had assumed to be a rather abandoned corner of Norway. It made little sense for barely anyone to be here now, but then, it was a Sunday, and this particular road didn't have a lot to offer. No fjords, no mountains, just stretches of flat land, some grassy hills, some farms to the sides. Southern Sweden would seem underwhelming if Grantaire couldn't appreciate the peacefulness of it.

The skies had been growing progressively darker ever since they'd left Gothenburg, as if they were driving into bad weather, but Grantaire hadn't cared or commented so far – a little rain felt welcome after weeks of clear skies in Norway. They had been on the road again for almost two hours when Enjolras leaned forward and squinted at a corner of the windshield.

“Is it starting to rain?”

Grantaire followed his eyes to where a single raindrop had left a trace on the windshield, but before he could answer, more raindrops made a reply redundant.

“Summer storm, probably?” Grantaire switched on the wipers. “And here I thought Scandinavia was more balanced about this stuff.” He frowned, inspecting the dashboard as well as he could while paying attention to the road. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“There's – look.” Grantaire pushed down the lever below the steering wheel, pushed it up again, down again, as the falling rain steadily built up into a heavy shower. “No windshield wipers. They're just – they're dead.”

“ _What_?”

“Fuck.” Not even three hours after Enjolras had practically had an anxiety attack over driving, obviously the smartest thing to do was make an inconvenience sound like a catastrophe. Why was Grantaire doing all this again? He wasn't cut out for the job at all. “Look, we're okay, I'm pulling over.”

“I'm fine,” Enjolras said, and to Grantaire's relief, he really sounded calm. They still had to pull over, the rain pouring down the windows making it impossible to see anything clearly, and Grantaire futilely tried switching the wipers on once more before he gave up and cut the engine.

“You know, I thought we were having a run, but maybe curses don't break that easy.”

Enjolras said nothing. Grantaire fell back in his seat, his shoulders sagging. He hated this car. It was too small for the two of them, it was so old that it consumed more gas than any car really should these days (and this was Combeferre, the epitome of responsibility and reason! Grantaire was going to have to ask for the story behind the VW once they got back, if they ever did), and at this point, Grantaire was pretty sure that it was jinxed. To think that Combeferre had made it from Paris to Bergen without notable incidents seemed like something from an alternate reality.

“We can wait out the rain,” Enjolras said quietly. He sounded as resigned as Grantaire felt. “I don't think it'll be long.”

“I didn't even know windshield wipers _could_ break.” Grantaire slowly shook his head, still caught between disbelief and desparation. “Did Combeferre just forget to tell us? Were they still working while he had his car?”

“I don't know.”

“And what could even be wrong with wipers? They're hardly ever used, and all they do is go up and down! What could possibly be demanding enough to cause them to break?”

“Has to be a problem with the electrics,” Enjolras said. Grantaire frowned.

“Do you know stuff about cars?”

“No, that's just deductive reasoning,” Enjolras said. Then, to Grantaire's surprise, he smiled. “Why, would it be so outlandish if I did?”

 _Well, for one, you don't even drive_ , was the thing Grantaire didn't say. He was frustrated with himself, and he didn't want Enjolras to take the brunt of that. “Not really,” Grantaire admitted. “I might have been stereotyping.”

“Fine as long as you're self-aware and working to fix it,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire laughed softly. He hadn't really been able to have that with Enjolras before, jokes born from shared bitterness.

The rain was still beating down, and now, there was also the soft sound of thunder in the distance. The windows fogged up from the inside, unable to adjust to the sudden change from warm to cold, and Grantaire ran a finger along the glass, drawing swirls until the condensation was almost gone.

“I used to be scared of this when I was little.” Enjolras sounded distracted; he was watching the trickle of water down the window on his side, drops forming small streams together. “I must know more about Faraday cages than Combeferre by now; I had my mother explain them to me every time there was a storm on a long drive.”

“You were scared of thunderstorms?”

“In cars,” Enjolras clarified. “I'd been told metal attracted electricity, and cars were essentially large chunks of metal. So we'd be in especially big danger there, as I saw it.”

“Sound logic.”

“For a five-year-old, it is.”

“Hey,” Grantaire said, rubbing the back of his neck, “I, uh. I'm not sure it makes sense for me to say that, and it's not really in my hands to change it, but I'm still really sorry everything's... been so terrible since we left?”

He knew Enjolras was looking at him, but Grantaire couldn't quite face him. “Why would you be sorry for that?”

“I don't know, because – I kind of feel responsible, for some reason?” Grantaire kept tripping over words that sounded wrong. “This wasn't even your idea, letting me drive, and the past few months seem to have been really shitty for you, and I don't feel like I'm making the trip back home easy on you.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said after a beat of silence. “It's raining and the wipers are broken. Those are two things completely out of our control.”

“I'm not talking about that.”

“What, then?”

It was impossible to put into words. Obviously, it wasn't Grantaire's fault that Enjolras' feet were sore, or that there had been a truck accident in a random tunnel in Norway, or that Oslo was impossible to navigate, or that Gothenburg's streets were too crowded. Despite all this, the truth was that Enjolras would probably much rather have someone different next to him while he had to deal with all those things, someone who reacted properly and helpfully to short-lived panic attacks, or who knew how to fix windshield-wiper-related problems. Literally any of their friends would have been a better companion for Enjolras, but Grantaire had a feeling that telling him he was sorry for just being himself wasn't a great idea.

“I think I might attract bad luck,” Grantaire said, evasive before he'd consciously decided to be. It was incredible how easy it was for him to talk himself into a corner. “You know, Bossuet-style. I'd say it's the troll, but we only bought that one this morning.”

Enjolras was still looking at him, and when Grantaire finally felt up to facing him, his expression was soft. “Bad luck isn't a death sentence. The rain has to stop eventually, then we'll wipe down the windows, and we won't even have been set back by an hour.”

 

Enjolras made those things sound so easy. As it turned out, they could be, if you wanted them to be, because the rain stopped after they'd talked about everything and nothing for ten more minutes, and they managed to get the windshield clear again by drying it completely with towels from their luggage. Both of them were aware that the same ordeal would start over the second it started raining again, which was how they found themselves at a very small and abandoned gas station a little later, trying to explain to a grumpy attendant there that their windshield wipers had forsaken them in their hour of need.

“I don't know why this place is so deserted,” Grantaire said, walking back to the car where Enjolras was waiting after their second failed attempt at talking to the gas station attendant (who had thick eyebrows, a stern face, and a strict refusal to speak English, which didn't help at all). “There has to be someone around here who doesn't refuse to talk to us and knows things about cars.”

“Did he yell at you, too?” Enjolras barely seemed phased. Maybe he'd dealt with more than one yelling Scandinavian man in his five months here.

“He didn't really _yell_ – well, he was sort of using a harsh intonation.”

“It can't be that hard to figure out,” Enjolras said. “Maybe we can fix it on our own.”

“Come on.” Grantaire huffed. “Optimism can only get you so far. I know more about, fuck, I know more about freshwater crocodiles than I know about cars.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if you knew a lot about freshwater crocodiles,” Enjolras said as he pressed his fingers below the VW-logo to push up the hood. The air was still damp with rain, making the warmth that had already returned close and sticky, and it happened to give Enjolras a good look, his hair curling and his grey v-neck clinging to his form a little more than usual.

“I don't,” Grantaire remembered to say. “This would be so much easier if we could just google it.”

“That wouldn't help,” Enjolras said, his confidence apparently shrinking as he kept the hood propped up with one arm and examined everything beneath it. “I wouldn't even know where to start with this; I've no idea what's what.”

Grantaire stilled, remembering something. “Did you say Marius knew Swedish?”

“Some Swedish,” Enjolras said distractedly. Then, he looked up. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“I didn't say anything!”

“You want to call Marius to translate for us.”

“Is that so absurd? He knows more than we do, there's no wi-fi here, and making a short call is going to be less expensive than using roaming.”

“We can't say for certain that it's going to be a short call, and we can't ask that of him. He's not even comfortable talking to strangers in French.”

Grantaire sighed. “We have to get this fixed, right? I wouldn't want to keep driving knowing a little rain can shut us down. We should at least ask him.”

“Ask, then,” Enjolras said, resigned. “But I won't help you persuade him.”

“I'll simply have to be persuasive on my own, then.” Grantaire fished for his phone in his hoodie, and Enjolras went back to frowning at the engine compartment.

Marius picked up after two dial tones. He sounded happy rather than stressed, which was a better precondition than Grantaire had expected. “Why, good afternoon, Pontmercy,” Grantaire said with false cheer. “How are you doing?”

“I'm fine, thank you – oh! This is making me sound rude, isn't it; I meant to say congratulations. I was going to text you, but I thought you wouldn't reply anyway, being in another country and all. So, congratulations, I'm sorry it came at such a bad time, but obviously this is a really good thing in itself, and a good sign—”

It took Grantaire a while to catch on, and then he realised that his phone call-secret might not be as secret as he'd hoped. It was one thing for Musichetta to know, but if Marius knew, then everyone did, or the news wouldn't have reached him. “Thanks,” he interrupted, failing at not sounding rude, “that's sweet, uh, listen, the reason I'm calling...”

“Right, why would you be calling?” There it was. That particular pitch of voice might just indicate slightly higher-than-normal stress levels. “Is something wrong? Do you need me to call someone?”

“Woah, no. I mean. Yes, something's wrong. Do you have a minute? Not much more, ideally, because this shit costs, and my phone bill's already through the roof, so...”

“Please tell me what's going on,” Marius said, increasingly exasperated. Grantaire cleared his throat.

“All right. Listen, this is sort of a _Who Wants to Be a Millionaire_ situation, right? And you're our 'Call a Friend,' time restrictions and all. How good is your Swedish?”

Enjolras was shaking his head at Grantaire, reprimand written all over his expression, but he didn't say anything. Possibly because he didn't need to; his opinion was quite clear.

“It's – decent, I hope?” Marius, miraculously, sounded a little more composed. Grantaire had suspected this might happen; Marius liked to hide behind foreign languages. They made him a little more sure of himself rather than having the opposite effect. “Do you need language help?”

“It'd be great if you could translate a little bit for us,” Grantaire said. “I'd put you on speaker and you'd go over some details with a rather irritable Swede.”

“What sort of details?”

“Car-related ones.”

A pause. “That's – very specific vocabulary, I'd have to look a lot of things up –”

“Are you anywhere near a computer? Online dictionaries exist.” Grantaire thought for a second. “Alternatively, it'd help if you walked us through a how-to on fixing windshield wipers? But quickly. Picture a five euro bill burning up for every second we talk.” Fine, it wasn't _that_ expensive, but hyperboles were never wrong for this kind of thing. The severity of the situation had to come across somehow.

“Oh,” Marius said softly. “Then – the irritable Swede, please. I think I'll do a better job of making him understand me than I would of trying to understand cars.”

Enjolras was frowning now, and immediately started following Grantaire when he made to go back inside the station.

Grantaire explained the problem as they walked, and he heard Marius typing on the other end. Enjolras hadn't been right to doubt him, Grantaire thought. When he needed to, Marius functioned incredibly under pressure, focused and quick on his feet, and they were lucky to have his help. It even felt a little wrong, ordering him around from three countries over, like they were exploiting his kindness. They'd have to make up for that when they got back.

“Okay, Marius, we're back in the station, and he's already staring at us,” Grantaire said, thinking that he was setting the scene quite well. Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I'll put you on speaker and when I say 'go,' you need to explain the situation, okay? I trust you can take it from there. Ready?”

“Yes – I think.” Grantaire was reminded of the few times he'd played _Keep Talking and Nobody Explodes_ with Éponine over the phone. Marius sounded suspiciously like he'd been tasked with defusing a bomb. “I'm ready.”

“All right.” They were right in front of the attendant now, a middle-aged man in a plaid shirt who looked like he could kill with a single glance, and was just barely managing not to do just that to anyone who annoyed him. Enjolras said nothing, obviously having given up on improving the situation, and Grantaire didn't have time to think about how the two of them had to look right now before he pressed the speaker button and held his phone out between all three of them. “Go.”

In the next thirty seconds, they witnessed a miracle. Marius talked without interruption, not quickly, but in a steady stream of words that both Enjolras and Grantaire were unable to understand. When he was done, silence fell, and the man behind the counter looked up, his eyes darting between the phone, Enjolras, and Grantaire.

“What's happening?” Marius had switched back to French. “Oh God, please someone say something.”

The man started to laugh, a rough barking sound. Enjolras and Grantaire exchanged a look, both terrified and fascinated, and the man spoke in Swedish as he came around the counter.

“He's going to help you,” Marius translated when the man was done and passed them to walk toward the door, “is the bottom line.”

“He spoke for a little longer than that,” Enjolras said. They could hear Marius clear his throat.

“Well, uh. There might have been some unkind remarks in there that reinforced antiquated ideas of masculinity; I didn't translate those.”

“He's walking away,” Grantaire said, twisting to keep his eyes on the man, “why is he walking away?”

“I don't know? He said he might know what was wrong and that it probably had something to do with a blown fuse, just go with him or something—”

Enjolras already had; he was almost by the door by now.

“You're a masterpiece, Pontmercy,” Grantaire said and started following them as well. “That is. If he's really helping us and not, I don't know, luring us further from civilisation to abduct us... Oh, no, he isn't, they're looking at the engine compartment. You're off the hook.”

“I'm – I'm glad.”

“Seriously, though, thanks, we don't deserve you. I'd be more elaborate if time wasn't money, but, you know.”

“It costs me too,” Marius said in that somehow both endearing and accidentally rude manner that was completely reserved for him.

“Right. See you in a few days, tell Cosette I love her.”

“That's – uh.”

“Bye, Pontmercy.” Grantaire had almost caught up with the others when he hung up. His phone informed him that the call had lasted a little more than three minutes, which was incredibly impressive considering the progress they'd made in that time. It would have been expensive and not really morally sound to let ask Marius to translate the part of the conversation that was still to follow, and after all those calls that Grantaire hadn't been able to put down the phone on, it felt good to keep something brief.

By the car, Enjolras and the gas station worker were talking in a makeshift language of gestures and vague noises, and it was hilarious to watch. Grantaire indulged in that for a second before he joined the odd conversation. The man seemed more cheery now, even though his slightly intimidating air remained, but the gesture of at least attempting to communicate in his mother tongue seemed to have been enough to lift his mood. He showed them the fuse box in the engine compartment, very pointedly presented to them the obvious gap between two filaments in one of the fuses, and let them follow him back to the station to show them what sort of fuse to buy in replacement of the old one. They were colour-coded, a rather foolproof method, Grantaire thought, and Enjolras managed to put the new one in without needing any more help from the attendant. Grantaire had a feeling Enjolras had seen a point to prove, there.

 

From that point, travelling was easy again, at least for the day. They reached Malmö within thirty more minutes and with now-working windshield wipers; there, they decided to take the Øresund Bridge to Copenhagen rather than go by ferry, and that way, Grantaire found out that the Øresund Bridge was a thing that existed.

“I can't believe you didn't tell me about this,” Grantaire said once they'd paid the toll and were headed for the bridge itself. “To think that we might have missed this in favour of taking a ferry. We're going to _drive across the Baltic sea_ , Enjolras.”

“I was sure you knew,” Enjolras said, but he was watching out for the bridge as intently as Grantaire. “Everyone knows it, and I thought you of all people would.”

Grantaire said nothing, because they'd reached the bridge, and everything was suddenly blue. The short-lived storm from earlier was long behind them, and before them, the sea seemed endless, the blue sky meeting it almost seamlessly. He couldn't see nearly as much of it as he wanted to; he wanted to stop the car by the side of the road and lean over the railing of the bridge, he wanted to dig up his tripod and fisheye lens and try (possibly fail; he wouldn't even care) to capture this, but stopping was forbidden except in emergencies, and he didn't want to annoy Enjolras with his excitement about a bridge any more than he already had.

Against Grantaire's expectations, though, Enjolras wasn't unmoved either.

“It's like the Pont de Normandie,” he said in a voice soft with awe, “only with... more of everything.”

Grantaire knew what he meant. He'd been travelling a lot lately, but he'd only ever seen this much blue at once from a plane. And a plane had smaller windows than this; small, unsatisfying windows. “Weird, how just water and air can be that overwhelming,” he said. He imagined talking Enjolras into letting him roll the top down, letting them both see the blue right above them as well, because that was the point of a convertible, and they hadn't taken advantage of that at all. The thought was painfully romantic, and Grantaire couldn't think of anything to say for the rest of the drive across the bridge.

Going through a tunnel right after feeling at one with the sky was a strange antithesis that Grantaire thought he'd immediately mark as “far too on-the-nose” if he taught a creative writing class. He couldn't even keep in the comment about it being “a pretty grounding experience,” but Enjolras smiled at that, so he supposed there could be some purpose to that kind of remark.

They didn't drive for much longer once they'd touched on Danish ground. There was no point to it – they were going to have to take a ferry from Copenhagen anyway, and neither of them felt like catching one that would still leave today. A few kilometres from Copenhagen's airport, they found an affordable hostel that was too large not to have at least one vacancy, and booked a double room with a shared bathroom in the hall. It wasn't a nice place, certainly a contrast to the hotel they'd stayed in the night before, but it did offer wi-fi, and Grantaire had a feeling Enjolras never wanted to repeat last night's events anyway.

“I think I take back what I said earlier,” Enjolras said as they walked across the premises to find their room. The hostel was laid out like a park, with several houses that Grantaire thought looked a little like greenhouses scattered across the rather large grounds. “When I get home, the first thing I'm going to do is cook a three-course meal and just eat it all by myself. It's going to be healthy and nutritious and it's going to have to catch me up on two weeks of lacking vitamins.”

“It's funny you should say that.” Grantaire grinned as the glass doors of their building slid open before them; this hostel was an experience in itself. “Because I was about to say that I think there's still at least two packets of ramen somewhere in my backpack, and didn't the receptionist say there was a communal kitchen?”

Enjolras pulled a face, but he nodded. “She did. That's probably the best we'll get for dinner.”

“We could drive into town and get proper food, you know.” Grantaire himself didn't feel like it, this day had been exhausting for some reason, but having a decent meal didn't sound too awful. “Maybe not three courses, but at least something that has vegetables. You know, potatoes that have never seen a deep fryer.”

“Honestly? I'm tired.” Enjolras glanced at him, and Grantaire realised that he looked it, too, his shoulders hunched just slightly and some of the usual composure gone from his face. “Aren't you?”

“Yes,” Grantaire said, secretly glad to be able to admit it. “A little.”

Their room had a bunk bed, and Grantaire, self-proclaimed atheist since twelve, thanked the heavens when he saw it. Maybe he'd actually get a night's sleep this time, without having to be constantly aware of Enjolras right next to him. It shouldn't affect him that much; he was perfectly aware of his own ridiculousness, but he would still much rather be separated from Enjolras at least on a vertical level while they slept than keep sharing beds.

They prepared dinner with the ancient kettle from the communal kitchen and ate with plastic forks that Grantaire had bought days ago in a rare moment of prudence. Enjolras, probably in an attempt to make up for his comment from earlier, mentioned that this was also nostalgic in a nice way, reminding him of his earlier semesters at university when meals like this had been a standard dinner. Grantaire thought it did very little to elevate their dinner of noodles and what could barely count as broth. “I don't know where we're going to be tomorrow,” he said, “but wherever that is, and whatever the situation's going to be like, I think we should find somewhere to get real dinner.”

Enjolras gave him a surprised look, and for a brief, very panicked second, Grantaire wondered if he'd just managed to make things weird, but Enjolras smiled and collected Grantaire's cup of noodles to throw away along with his own. “Deal. We've both earned it.”

 

After they'd gone back to their room and settled in as much as was necessary for one night, Grantaire slipped away to smoke – it felt wrong here, when the staff were obviously going through some effort to make a very average hostel seem clean and fancy, but his guilty conscience wasn't quite bad enough to stop him from sitting down to smoke on the wooden stairs that lead down from the porch of their building. The air had grown cooler, which felt nice, and it was the quiet time of day where everyone else was either having late dinners, preparing for a night out, or had already left for said night out. Ignoring the few fellow smokers that passed him on the steps and lingered somewhere close to the porch, Grantaire could almost pretend that he was alone.

It was draining, being around Enjolras day and night. It only hit him now how much. Not because Enjolras was a difficult person to be around, but because Grantaire had to keep so much in when he was with him, and there were so many things that he couldn't say out loud. It didn't help that he normally had a tendency to run his mouth far too much; at least with most of his friends, he could trust not to break all ties of friendship whenever he was the brand of honest that nobody appreciated. He couldn't risk that with Enjolras, he never wanted to, and because of that, he needed distance, if he could have it.

He lost track of time like that, watching smoke dissipate before the sky that was starting to turn into softer shades of red and purple as the sun set. When Enjolras found him, he wasn't sure for how long he'd been out here.

“Hey,” Enjolras said, leaning against the railing of the stairs, partly blocking Grantaire's view. This one syllable carried an unpleasant tone.

Grantaire shifted. He felt like he should be bracing himself for impact. “Everything all right?”

“I just talked to Courfeyrac.”

Right. Grantaire had encouraged that, he remembered. Whatever was about to rain down on him, he'd brought on himself.

“He told me to, this is a quote with very slight alterations, 'kick your ass in the name of Gros and smack you in the face for passing up a chance like that'. He was furious at you, I could barely get a word in.”

At the mention of Gros, Grantaire felt something rise in his chest, a very brief, short-lived panic that was instantly followed by resignation. If Enjolras knew, there wasn't really anything he could do to talk himself out of this.

“I didn't ask him what that was about, just that I'd pass it on.” Enjolras took a breath, and Grantaire wondered if he knew that he was terrifying like this, so calm and still so, so obviously angry. “I take it you know what he's referring to?”

Grantaire dropped his cigarette and ground his heel down on it. “Yes,” he said. Then, quietly. “So do you.”

“I really don't,” Enjolras said. “I know you've been acting strange while we were still in Bergen, I know you got a lot of calls you didn't want me to know about, and now I know that your former mentor has been trying to get in touch, that he chose to extend an olive branch _years_ after you quit school, and I'm trying to piece all that together.”

It wouldn't have sounded threatening at all, coming from anyone else. “And how's that going?”

Enjolras' jaw tightened. “It would be easier if you _talked to me_.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything you're willing to tell me.”

Grantaire ran a hand through his hair, tried to find a way out of this, and gave up. The process took about ten seconds. “Right,” he said. It had been stupid from the beginning to think that he could keep this contained for very long, even though they were in a different country, even though communication was as much of a struggle for them currently as it had probably been in the dark ages. “I, uhm. You know how Chetta still sort of sees Gros on a weekly basis and it would be really weird if she was anyone but Chetta, so they maintain a really professional relationship and we never talk about it?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said. Obviously, he'd know, Musichetta had been working her current job for a long time, and even though she barely ever mentioned Gros, everyone knew the two couldn't avoid running into each other. “I thought they generally avoided you as a topic.”

“They do. I mean, they used to.” It wouldn't make for the best small talk, chatting about a former protégé who had disappeared from the scene without much of a note. Grantaire wasn't sure if Gros even remembered that he and Musichetta were friends. “Lately, uh, that is, after we got back from Australia, I asked her if she could just sort of... test the waters for me? Nothing big, I didn't ask her to fix my shit, I just wanted to know if me trying to talk to him was completely pointless or if maybe, I don't know...”

When Grantaire looked at him, Enjolras had softened by the tiniest shade.

“And you know Chetta,” Grantaire continued, “she went all out instead, and she showed him some of the stuff I was doing at the time, and then a while ago, when I was already here, he just called me out of nowhere. Like, across four countries. He hadn't mentioned anything to Chetta, like, he _wanted_ to ambush me.”

“When was this?”

Grantaire made a dismissive noise. “A little more than a week ago. Just out of the blue, he calls me, and tells me he still has a spot to fill for an exhibition on short notice because someone backed out, and says I can have it if I'm there to help Chetta with some last minute curating. Which, honestly, is such an asshole kind of offer, because it's obviously a test, he knows I know nothing about curating and he doesn't actually want me to help with it—”

“Can you blame him for wanting to make sure you're serious?” Enjolras wasn't trying to be unkind, but he was too sensible a person to talk about this with. “Grantaire, did you turn him down?”

“Of course I turned him down.” Grantaire sounded more bitter than he wanted to. “And I know you're all out for my head now, Chetta is honestly waiting to tear me to shreds back home, one of those calls was from her, and apparently she didn't keep quiet about it, because Pontmercy knows, and Courfeyrac knows, and now you do, so, honestly, just—” He gestured vaguely. “If I have a speech coming, just get it over with.”

No speech came. Enjolras was quiet for a long enough time to make Grantaire a little uncomfortable, although he probably didn't intend to, and then he said, “You had a good reason to turn him down, I assume.”

That was debatable. “Sort of,” Grantaire said.

“Will you tell me?”

“I, uh.” He looked down at his feet. “It's very standard stuff, really. He caught me off guard, I wasn't expecting him to just call like that, and talking to him after everything, I don't know, it threw me off. And a last minute thing like that, I don't think I'd have been able to pull together anything good, and he must have known that, too, and then there was the thing about him trying to put my dedication to the test which is just a shitty thing to do...” He trailed off, running out of reasons. He thought they sufficed, only partially true as they might be.

Enjolras didn't agree. “That can't be true.”

“Jesus, Enjolras.”

“No, that's – I'm not prepared to believe that you running away from something is the only reason you'd turn down such an opportunity. And I'm not going to demand the truth from you either, but if you're trying to lay yourself out as a coward deliberately in order to have an excuse, I think the others have reason to be angry. We all know that's not what you are.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes, a reflex. He was a lot more desperate than he was annoyed. “You're giving me too much credit. Would it be such a disgrace to be friends with one person that isn't an overachiever?”

“That doesn't have anything to do with what we're talking about.”

“I think it does.”

“I think you're trying to rile me up because you don't want to tell me the real reason,” Enjolras said, and if he was right, then it was working, because the anger was back. Grantaire wasn't really sure that was what he'd been trying to do; he'd lost proper grasp on this situation a minute ago. “Do you really trust me so little that you'd rather lie than admit that?”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, because this was becoming too much too quickly, “I _couldn't say yes_.”

“You've said. But why not?”

“Because I knew that at the time he wanted me in a gallery in Paris, I was very likely going to be at a hostel in Denmark.”

Enjolras stilled, his eyes still on Grantaire, hurt suddenly plain in his expression, and this was exactly what Grantaire hadn't wanted, this was what he'd been trying so desperately to avoid. They weren't supposed to be talking about this, and Enjolras of all people hadn't been supposed to find out. “Did he call the day we asked if you'd drive me?” His voice was quiet now. “When you went outside to take the call, was that when he made the offer?”

“Yes.” Grantaire said it on an exhale.

“By what time did he want you to be there?”

“Yesterday.”

“So then...” Enjolras frowned, his eyes unfocused. “So when we asked you to drive me, you already knew there was an offer from Gros, and that the times might overlap, and you said yes anyway.”

“There's no anyway, Enjolras,” Grantaire said helplessly. “It's not – I wasn't going to tell you this, all right? You weren't supposed to know, I knew you'd see it like this, but it's not like – listen, the second you both asked for my help, the offer was off the table for me, that's a choice _I_ made.”

“But why would you? We would have found another way, you didn't have to pass up a chance like that – did you think we wouldn't have understood?”

“No,” Grantaire said, “I think you would have insisted on paying a stranger to drive Combeferre's car to Paris just so I could hang up a few photos somewhere, and the mere idea of that is ridiculous. You would have made it a big deal when it wasn't; I knew you'd get angry about this, but you don't need to, it's honestly not that important—”

“Stop saying that!”

Grantaire had known it was the wrong thing to say a second before it had slipped out. Enjolras hated few things more than people putting themselves down, mainly because he had no idea when it was perfectly appropriate. He thought it never was.

“If you'd talked about this to me, I would have understood,” Enjolras said. “I would never have bothered you about it if you'd had an actual reason, an _honest_ one. But this? How could you possibly think that me having a chauffeur was more important than you making use of such an opportunity?”

“ _Because_ ,” Grantaire closed his eyes, “it's common knowledge that the most trivial shit in your life is still more relevant than the most important stuff I've got going on.”

He didn't want to look at Enjolras, but when there was no response from him at all, Grantaire had to, and found his eyes. He regretted it immediately, looking away and staring at the ground again. “Please don't look at me like that,” he said. He suddenly felt the full exhaustion of the day in a rush, all at once. “I really wasn't going to tell you.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “you've said that.”

The sound of steps, and Enjolras was sitting down next to him, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The venom from just a few seconds ago was gone, just like that, but they were both miserable now, and that didn't seem preferable to Grantaire.

It hadn't been completely untrue that he was also intimidated by the sudden offer, that he had doubts about whether or not it was a good idea. But if he was being completely honest, if he had been back in Paris on time, there wouldn't have been a version of events where he didn't accept. Of course Enjolras would know that. Of course Enjolras wouldn't understand that this still wasn't a tragedy.

“What can we do to fix this?”

And of course that was the first thing he'd ask.

“Nothing needs fixing. No – please listen.” Enjolras had already opened his mouth, ready to object. He closed it again and nodded. “Honestly, Gros is a dick. He knows I was in a bad place when I dropped out, and I don't expect to be coddled, but he doesn't need to punish me for that four years down the road.” Grantaire ran a hand over his eyes. “There's going to be other opportunities, sooner or later. If I really do want to be serious about it again. I think asking Chetta to reach out to him wasn't the right way to go about it in the first place.”

“I won't ever understand why you won't let her help you in other ways,” Enjolras said. “With all the people she knows, it'd be easy for her to put in a good word in for you.”

“You don't understand that? Would you want to be given a shot somewhere just because a friend of yours knew the right people?”

“If I thought it could really make a difference, of course.” He shrugged. “I'm a goal-oriented kind of person.”

“That you are.” Grantaire almost smiled. “Listen, putting weird reasons and my own complexes aside, I just... I'm begging you not to feel guilty about this. I know you wouldn't admit to it, but you always blame yourself, and it's never justified. So, uh. Don't?”

Enjolras was silent for a few seconds, seeming to struggle with finding the right words. “I don't... I don't really feel guilty, personally. This time. But I do keep wondering if...” He shook his head, unsure where to look. “Is there anything we're doing, all of us? To make you feel that way? I'm not asking because I'm trying to exonerate myself and the others, only because – if there is, we need to know. We want to know.”

Sometimes, between crushing on him and being mildly intimidated by him, Grantaire forgot how absolutely clueless Enjolras could be. “To be brutally honest here,” Grantaire said, “I'm pretty sure the time I spend around you is always the time where I feel it the least.”

They were sitting closely enough for their knees to be touching, and Grantaire still couldn't look anywhere but down. After a while, Enjolras drew up a hand and rested it on Grantaire's arm, near his wrist. Grantaire could count the times Enjolras had intentionally touched him on one hand; it simply didn't happen.

Enjolras squeezed his wrist just once, gently, before letting go again.

“Courfeyrac is still an asshole,” Grantaire muttered. “Chetta, too. I would have told you sooner or later.”

He could feel Enjolras' eyes rest on him, and eventually, Enjolras said softly, in a voice that Grantaire had trouble placing, “I really want that to be true.”

 

They went to bed not too long after. Enjolras insisted on doing the scrapbook this time, and in exchange, he lent Grantaire his e-reader. Grantaire read through a few articles that must have been on there for studying purposes, but none of them could hold his attention for too long, so he ended up with a selection of poetry that must have come pre-loaded on the device. By the time Enjolras got up to switch off the light, Grantaire was half-asleep, and he barely managed to hand the tablet back down to the bottom bunk in his state of semi-consciousness.

Enjolras' fingers grazed his as he took it back. Seconds later, Grantaire was already asleep, the constant noise in his mind from the previous days quieted for once. 

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two things: One, the toll to cross the Øresund bridge is higher than any phone bill E and R could possibly receive after calling abroad for like, two hours, but shhh, and two, I have never met a rude Swede _in my life_ and I am so sorry the narrative required one.  
>  Comments and messages make my day every time, so thank you so, so much for them. And thank you for reading! ♥


	6. Copenhagen - Travemünde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is officially dedicated to the darling anon who was told by me that this story "might update this week" two weeks ago. You deserve so much better than my treachery. Please forgive me.

Copenhagen was quiet in the morning, as Enjolras had never wanted to find out. Grantaire, who seemed to have had no trouble sleeping for once, had carefully shaken him awake at half past five, mumbling something about ferry schedules and time for breakfast. Enjolras would have been more annoyed by this if he hadn't, for some reason, had to fight the instinct to reach up and pull Grantaire into a hug the second he'd opened his eyes and seen him.

Under different circumstances, Enjolras would also at least have pointed out that getting up that early obviously hadn't been necessary when they arrived at the docks to find out their ferry was only leaving in an hour. Although he didn't voice that thought, Grantaire noticed his unhappiness.

“It's possible that I was aware of this,” he said as they walked along the quay, both of them having seen no reason to wait in the car. “It's also possible that I couldn't admit to you that I wanted to be here early so we'd have time to check out the little mermaid.”

“ _What_?”

“She's here somewhere!” Grantaire shrugged helplessly. “We should be walking in the right direction right now, actually.”

“I'm not sure we should be trusting your sense of direction,” Enjolras sighed. “You could have told me you wanted to see it.”

“I did, technically, only we were still in Norway then,” Grantaire pointed out. “And be honest – would you have gotten out of bed for that?”

“Of course I would have.”

“Right. You seem thrilled.”

“I.” Enjolras frowned; everything that came to him sounded wrong in his mind. “I didn't sleep well.”

Grantaire grimaced. “Sorry. I thought you'd – I mean, I fell asleep fine, for the first time in, uh. Forever. I just assumed you'd sleep better in a bed of your own.”

It made more sense than Enjolras wanted to admit, especially because he only just noticed how much more soundly he'd been sleeping with someone next to him. That particular kind of loneliness had never been a problem for him before. The fact that Grantaire felt the opposite way shouldn't sting, there was no reason for it to, but it did.

They had stopped off at a bakery on the way here, which Enjolras now recognised as Grantaire's attempt at placating Enjolras once he found out about their extra stop at an underwhelming tourist attraction. He couldn't even pretend it didn't work – fresh pastries were a far more luxurious breakfast than anything they'd had in days, and Danish bakeries, as it turned out, had excellent selections of fruit teas.

“This is kind of disappointing,” Grantaire said when they spotted the small sculpture right next to the quay. “ _Again_. Why do I let myself look forward to things?”

“I've been wondering the same thing. I always thought you didn't, generally.”

“General me seems to be a lot wiser than vacation me.”

Enjolras sat on the edge of the quay to finish his breakfast. The day was going to be hot, up to thirty degrees, and Enjolras couldn't say he looked forward to that. Now, the sun was still bearable, and the sea looked lovely, calm as it was in the morning.

“I must be a bad influence on you,” Grantaire said, smiling as he sat down next to him. “Look at you becoming a hedonist and degenerate who eats pastries for breakfast. Such a contrast to sugar-free berry cereal bars.”

“There's a chance we wouldn't make it home alive if we didn't eat something of substance at this point,” Enjolras said. “And it was your idea to have dinner tonight, I'll remind you, so I might as well start the day decadently.”

“Strong words,” Grantaire said. He was looking down at the sculpture as if he was still trying to overcome his disappointment. “I mean, it's summer. I don't know how people make it through that much decadence in nature without wanting some in their lives.”

“I've never made that connection.”

Grantaire looked over at him, considering. “I found Gautier on your e-reader yesterday,” he said. “That was weird. Like... Finding porn on Feuilly's desktop – level weird. Sort of gave my version of reality a crack.”

Enjolras bit back a smile. “Out of curiosity, is the weird thing here that you think Feuilly would hide his porn better, or that you think he wouldn't have any at all?”

“Hide it, definitely. He'd have it protected by, like, an enchanted chess game, a mythical creature with five heads that asks you riddles, and a really difficult math problem.”

“You've given that some thought.”

“Nah, that sort of stuff just comes to me.” Grantaire kicked a pebble into the water. “Professional bullshitter, and so forth.”

“They're Feuilly's,” Enjolras said after a few moments of silence. “I'm not – I mean, not that it's out of the question for me to enjoy poetry, but he used the reader sometimes for classes. When I was still there, that is.”

“See, there had to be a rational explanation.”

“I've looked at them,” Enjolras said, not sure what he was defending himself against. “They're a good distraction.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” Grantaire nodded. “Very effective to keep from moping.”

“I like the ballads.”

“They're the most practical option. All three forms wrapped into one.”

Silence again, and Enjolras was desperate to talk about last night. The matter seemed settled to Grantaire, and he'd refused every offer of help so fiercely yesterday that Enjolras wasn't sure he wouldn't make everything worse by asking again.

Instead, he pushed himself forward onto the rocks, turned to Grantaire, and said, “Can you skip stones?”

Grantaire couldn't, as it turned out, and was, in this respect, a bad learner. Enjolras, having spent a considerable part of his childhood practising, was no fair match to him, and, even though he tried his best to teach, was a little triumphant about that.

“It's not a very good environment for beginners,” he conceded after a while. “The flatter the surface, the better.”

“This is a terrible talent to be modest about,” Grantaire said. He was rolling a stone between his palms, and seemed anything but frustrated with his lack of success. Enjolras wanted to see him this unconcerned more often. “Admit it, you're really good.”

“I've had a lot of practice.” Enjolras reached over, carefully uncurling Grantaire's fingers to take the stone from him, and leaned forward to find the right angle. He threw it, and counted it skipping six times before it dropped below the surface. “But it's also technique – a little like bowling, actually; you just have to figure out the right angle and stance. It's mathematical.”

“That's.” Grantaire cleared his throat, thrown off balance by something Enjolras hadn't picked up on. “That probably explains why I'm terrible at it.”

“No one's good on their first attempt.”

“You know, I keep forgetting.” Grantaire smiled now, teasing. “You're a country kid, despite the complete lack of romantic constitution people would expect in one. Did you have like, a little private pond where you'd retreat to on Sunday afternoons, skipping stones and catching tadpoles? Because I can totally picture that.”

“Is that what you think life in the country is like?” That particular image wasn't completely off, loath as Enjolras might be to confess it. Growing up without siblings or other children his age had meant lots of afternoons spent with little else to do but skip rocks and read – and read, and read, and read.

“For rich people.” Grantaire shrugged. “I mean. I don't actually know anything about that. What's your guys' equivalent of a housing estate?”

“A neighbourhood.” Enjolras eyed him carefully. “You know that.”

Grantaire grinned. “Yeah. It's just weird, you're the picture-perfect metropolitan and you have this whole secret identity. Have any of the others actually ever seen you in your natural habitat?”

“In Soual? Of course, lots of them.” He had brought Combeferre there in their second semester break, Courfeyrac had helped when Enjolras had moved from the dorms into a real apartment and brought the rest of his things from home. And then... “Most of the others were at my family's house to celebrate New Year's two years back, remember?”

For a split second, Grantaire looked as if he genuinely had forgotten about it. Enjolras couldn't blame him – it wasn't a stretch of time any of them liked to think of; the group had been out of sync, strained, scattered, all of them torn apart with concern about one or the other thing: protests, pamphlets, graduating, Grantaire.

“Right,” Grantaire said. He _had_ forgotten, Enjolras realised, and wasn't too happy at having been reminded.

There was never a right way with Grantaire. Yesterday's events had served to confirm that, and it wasn't anyone's fault, but that only made it all the more frustrating. Enjolras wanted to find the next airport and put Grantaire on a plane to Roissy right now so he could head straight to Paris and fix this, never mind that this particular idea would leave Enjolras to chauffeur himself all the way home. He'd figure it out; it was about time he did, anyway. No matter how he looked at it, this, Grantaire skipping out on the first real chance to prove himself that he'd been given ever since he'd dropped out of school, just so that Enjolras might get home comfortably, wasn't right.

Enjolras picked up another stone and flung it across the water. It skipped three times.

 

They were among the first people to get onto the ferry, which Enjolras assumed would have its advantages as soon as it was time to get off it again. It also gave them a small window to explore the ship while it was still relatively empty, and it didn't take Grantaire long to decide that the best place on the whole thing was right on the tip of the bow. “If it's good enough for Jack and Rose, it's good enough for me.”

Enjolras took some time to stroll around the deck by himself after they'd cast off, but even though it was still early in the morning, the heat was slowly rising and people were flocking in every place in the shade that was available. He ended up perching on a piece of plastic cladding at the stern where he could prop up his feet on a nearby railing and catch some of the breeze that was stronger up on the deck.

He could appreciate the quiet, he told himself, but it was also undeniably lonely: he had gotten so used to having Grantaire close, or perhaps just having someone around at all times of the day, that being alone felt wrong. Surprised by himself, he fell back to the simplest explanation – he'd been away from home for too long, and was desperate for anything or anyone that reminded him of it.

There was free wi-fi on the ferry, not fast enough for Skype, but possibly for Whatsapp? Around this time on a weekday, Combeferre should be somewhere on his way to work, and maybe on the bus, if Enjolras was lucky.

He was, in that respect at least. Combeferre took less than a minute to text him back.

_Look who's got internet access! Are you still at the hostel?_

Enjolras smiled. _On the sea_ , he typed out. _Turns out international waters have WLAN. Have you talked to any of the others lately?_

What he really needed to know was if Courfeyrac had mentioned Enjolras' small panic attack to Combeferre. That he'd called yesterday had been Grantaire's doing, which Enjolras only knew because Courfeyrac wasn't nearly as subtle as he probably liked to think with his “Hey, just wanted to check in, are you okay, and by that I don't mean have there been any driving-related anxiety incidents lately.” Enjolras hadn't minded, it was sweet of them to care, but Combeferre shouldn't have another thing to worry about, and least of all he needed to feel guilty because Enjolras hadn't wanted to drive home in the first place. He would, Enjolras knew. That was a thing they were all excellent at, blaming themselves.

_Haven't had the time yet, but there's a meeting tonight. Why, what did you do?_

_I can honestly say nothing at all; thanks for your trust_. Enjolras thought for a moment before he added, _How are you doing? Still haven't unpacked, I'm guessing?_

 _We're too close_ , Combeferre texted back within seconds, and then, _I have plans for unpacking in the ten-second-space I have between getting home tonight and falling asleep. What's your itinerary for now? It'd help to know what time you'll be back._

It was a strange question to think about. At some point during the last few days on the road, actually making it home had become something intangible to Enjolras, trapped in limbo as they were. When were they going to get home? The ferry would take them to Travemünde in northern Germany, and from there, they had planned to go straight down to the western border and through Belgium. That, at least, was the plan that didn't factor in detours and diversions, but so far, they hadn't really managed to stick directly to any of that.

_We should be in western Germany tonight, so if we spend the night there, we might be home by tomorrow night, but don't count on it. This thing keeps stretching out._

_I've noticed,_ Combeferre replied. His ability to convey the dry, deadpan tone of voice that implied a fond sort of sarcasm via text was impressive. _Depending on how far you've gotten by tonight, you might be able to stay at an abbey I know? I was there during my gap year and they let friends stay for free. Just let me know_.

Enjolras stared down at the screen, mildly horrified at the thought of suggesting to Grantaire that they spend the night at a religious institution. It was the opportunity for one snide sarcastic comeback just waiting to be made. _I don't think we'll turn down something free at this point. Thank you._ He added, because it needed to be said, _Remember to breathe between shifts._

_I was going to tell you not to worry, but I've actually got to go because my shift is starting. Have a safe trip._

Enjolras sighed. He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the gentle breeze and the sound of the motor, steady and dull. Down in the car deck, it had been colder and the dim artificial light had made him sleepy, and it suddenly seemed like a very good idea to sneak back down there to try to get some sleep in the backseat.

When Enjolras found him to let him know where he'd be going, Grantaire was still on the bow, looking relaxed as he leaned against the handrail and fiddled with a camera. Several things at once were perplexing about this: Enjolras had no idea he'd been gone long enough for Grantaire to find a camera and reclaim his place, Grantaire seemed completely impervious to the heat that the lack of shade supplied, and the image of Grantaire holding a camera – one of his DSLRs, not the polaroid – had become so rare that it seemed out of place now. Not unwelcome, not at all, because everyone in their group knew that a Grantaire who showed an interest in his cameras was Grantaire at his best, but it was certainly unexpected.

For a second, Enjolras didn't want to approach, feeling painfully like an intruder on a calm moment that shouldn't be disturbed. Grantaire seemed peaceful for once, content by himself, and Enjolras realised with a small sting that aside from the fact that Grantaire was missing out on an opportunity back in Paris and had practically seen no choice but to extend his holiday by two weeks, he might also be exhausted by being forced into Enjolras' vicinity. After all, he hadn't initially chosen this. His comments from earlier stood in a different light that way; how he was sleeping easier in a bed of his own, how he'd assumed Enjolras would be happier with them further apart. They were friends, and Enjolras could honestly say that they had once done a worse job at being friends, but nevertheless, it was no secret that Grantaire got along more easily and naturally with almost all of their other friends. The same was true in reverse. It had always been the two of them, somehow, that formed one constellation in their large and mismatched group of friends that had a harder time than the rest of them in trying to find even ground together. Enjolras hadn't forgotten that, but the past few days had made it so easy to pretend otherwise.

Grantaire had spotted him and was waving him over, thus taking away any possibilities for Enjolras to withdraw again and take time to overthink. That was probably a good thing, but a strange, new anxiety settled in the pit of his stomach as he approached Grantaire.

“You look unhappy,” Grantaire said, eyes back on his camera. “Talked to anyone from home yet?”

“To Combeferre,” Enjolras replied. “I was actually going to ask about that, we might be able to spend the night for free, but I don't have a lot of details yet.”

Grantaire looked up. “Who needs details? Free overnight stays are just yes, no questions asked.”

“We'll see,” Enjolras said. He was going to mention the whole abbey-thing later. “It's good to see you behind the camera for once.”

“Hah.” Grantaire was scrolling through pictures, Enjolras realised. He must have taken them while Enjolras had been gone – it looked like one light blue screen after the other, the sea and sky blending together. “I sort of haven't recovered from having missed my chance to take pictures on the bridge yesterday, and here we are.” He swung an arm out, pointing at the horizon. “Just as good, if not better. I couldn't _not_.”

That made sense, so much, actually, that Enjolras felt guilty at not having thought of it yesterday. Approximately fifteen prints that decorated Feuilly's room were an impressive testament to how much Grantaire loved the sky as a motive. Enjolras knew this. “You could have said you wanted more time on the bridge,” he said. “We could have stopped.”

“What?” Grantaire blinked. “No, that's against the rules. Plus, I mean, this isn't my photography excursion through Europe. I could have taken pictures in Bergen when I had the chance, and I didn't.”

Enjolras hesitated. After last night, surely they'd reached a level where it was okay to ask? “Why not?”

Frowning, Grantaire looked back up again. His expression would have been enough for Enjolras to break off the conversation on another day, but maybe that was what had always been wrong between them. “No special reason,” he said. “I wasn't really, uh, in the zone, so to speak? I think I've sort of burnt out a little, inspiration-wise, because I was on this awesome streak after travelling so much, and I probably thought I could make that last forever if I just, y'know, kept travelling. Hell, that's why I visited you guys in the first place.” He shrugged, careless. “It was going to fade out eventually, I should have seen that coming.”

Not even two minutes in the sun, and Enjolras already wanted to get out of it, back into the cooler shade. Grantaire was the exact opposite, he looked at home in the light like this, and he never seemed bothered by the heat, now that Enjolras thought about it. Why _was_ he thinking about it? They were having a conversation. “But it's back now?”

“Nah. It's not really like you need inspiration if this is your motive,” Grantaire said, and turned back to the railing. “I mean, it's the sky, what can you do wrong with that? It's always going to look good. Instant boost for your ego. And I enjoy a nice seascape as much as the next guy, but it would still be pretty if it was awfully painted, and no one's ever going to convince me that's not the reason there are so many of those out there.”

Enjolras let his eyes follow Grantaire's, his look sweeping over the horizon. He was right, it was beautiful, but on a clear day like this, the connection of sea and sky mostly seemed like blue in blue, too unexciting to be breathtaking. Clearly, Grantaire disagreed.

“You know how, when you get a really clear and broad view of the sky,” he went on, “it's always lighter right above the horizon? Almost white?”

Enjolras nodded – it was even obvious on the horizon before them right now.

“That's caused by aerosols that are dispersed in the lower atmosphere, and their size is roughly the same as the wavelength of visible light, which causes all colours to be scattered equally, so the blue fades into white – all colours at once. It's called Mie scattering, pretty much the most subtle natural gradient you'll ever see, unless you were going to, I don't know, get a cross section of the ocean, where you'd have the opposite effect; absorption until you end up with an absence of colours.” He seemed to check himself. “Sounds really boring when you say it out loud,” he said. Enjolras opened his mouth, ready to take issue with that, but Grantaire was smiling. “I guess it kind of is. Never talk to a photography person about optics, we won't shut up.”

This wasn't going to get them anywhere. “Can I see the pictures?”

“Oh.” Grantaire's frown was back, subtle as he tugged the camera's strap over his neck. “Sure. Spoiler alert, they're mostly a lot of blue.”

As Enjolras scrolled through the pictures, that description, while not inaccurate, didn't do the work justice. 'A lot of blue' was too broad a word to describe the way different shades of colour subtly blended into one another, how the sky seemed almost surreal in colours so rich they looked as if they couldn't be natural. At the bottom of some pictures, a sliver of coast or sea could be seen, and Enjolras liked those best, those that reminded him that he was really seeing something real that was in front of him right now and not just an abstract, digital blur of colour.

“You took these in the past thirty minutes,” he said, half a question.

“They're just sort of trial runs?” Grantaire took the camera back, and less than embarrassed, he looked indifferent, perhaps slightly addled. “I don't know, I tried to figure out how to work with depth a little more without changing the lens, but it's not really – anything. Slap a nice inspirational quote on there and you could probably put it into one of those 'Inner Peace' calendars. That's the real way to make money with photography, you know? Fuck art.”

He would probably have gone on like that for a while, and there were few things Enjolras loathed more than people who thought they had the right to interrupt others and cut them off – and yet. “I feel like we should talk about yesterday.”

Grantaire stilled. “Ah,” he said, and his guard had only taken a second to come back up. “I probably should have seen this coming, shouldn't I.”

“I wasn't going to push it,” replied Enjolras earnestly. “But it doesn't seem fair to either of us to pretend this is something we can just – skim over. Especially since you're clearly not fine with it.”

“Enjolras, I _always_ say bitter stuff, it means nothing like, 98 per cent of the time.” Grantaire sounded helpless. “That was just a no filter-thing. We don't have to talk about it anymore.”

“All right.” Enjolras breathed. “But I'd like to.”

Grantaire's defeat was visible. The tense line of his shoulders went slack, the grip on his camera loosened as he let it hang on the strap. He sought Enjolras' eyes. “I've already said everything,” he said, and that had to be a lie, because what had they really talked about? Hardly anything more than Grantaire's disregard for himself. “What do you want to know?”

It felt like pressing fingers into a wound. “What you said yesterday, that you...”

“I know what I said.”

“Was that the only reason?” It was what had stung most persistently since yesterday. Grantaire's half-smile right after he'd said that, as if he already regretted having been that honest, and his defeated, complete conviction that he was somehow worth less than the rest of them. It couldn't be his only reason, it wasn't _allowed_ to be.

Grantaire bit down on his lip. “I'm not sure what you're aiming at here,” he said after a while. He was staring at the the floor now, his eyes only flickering to Enjolras' for moments at a time. “I mean, yeah, I'm also a coward who is happy to take any excuse that'll save him from having to take a risk professionally. So that definitely played a role as well, but I couldn't tell you if it was, like, the crucial point or just sort of a nice side effect? That's probably not very helpful, it's just, uh. My brain. Doing things.”

“We could have helped.” At least, Enjolras was reasonably sure they could have. “Of course we don't have a right to take part in the decisions you make, but if it hadn't happened this way, if you'd been hesitating because you were worried about your work, you could have told us and we would have supported you.”

“But it did happen this way,” Grantaire said, agitated. “It was a lot of shit happening it once, so a lot of shit influenced that decision at once, and it's done now. I know you would have supported me, or tried to, anyway, because that's what you always do, and that's why it always has to be about me, you know? Even now!” He gestured wildly. “Why – why are we talking about this? Because unless everyone puts effort into fixing Grantaire's problems, he might relapse, and if that happens, someone's going to have to put their life on hold to look after him again, or everyone would take shifts and I'd somehow manage to impede literally all my friends at once, or I'd fall back on my family, which they'd be totally thrilled about, no doubt, as if I'm not already enough of a burden on them and you.” He wasn't looking at him at all anymore, talking more to the railing than Enjolras. “Think about it. What we talked about earlier – New Year's? I wasn't there, Bossuet was stuck taking care of me, you and I had pretty much torn each other to shreds the last time we'd seen each other, and everyone was the worse for it. I wanted to be the opposite of that just for once, I _have_ been trying not to be that, and that's impossible if I keep turning my problems into yours.”

Enjolras' mouth had gone dry, and in line with that, his words seemed to have shrivelled up on his tongue. He wanted to fill the silence, thick as it was, but nothing felt right.

Grantaire scrubbed a hand through his hair, the movement rough and hurried. “I'm good, you know? I know it's not – I mean, it's pointless to tell you this, because I'm not that great at telling myself, but you all need to stop being on guard whenever there's a slight fucking inconvenience in my life. It's not like I can promise you hands down that the worst is over, but if I can't get you to at least vaguely assume that it is, then – there's no point in trying to move on. Just.” He huffed. “Look at me, complaining about having thoughtful friends. Sorry. That's – there's no good way of putting any of this.”

There really wasn't, or Enjolras would already have said something, because words like those couldn't be left hanging in the air the way they had been last night. The sun was hot on the back of his neck, his cheeks felt warm. “Don't apologise,” he said, and it instantly sounded like the wrong thing to have said. Anything else probably would have, too, so next, he said the only thing on his mind in that moment, that one realisation that so many things could have been different if any of them had _known_. “We should have had this conversation so much earlier.”

“Hah.” Grantaire smiled now. “No place like a Danish-German ferry across the Baltic Sea, no time like nine in the morning.”

“We'll do better,” Enjolras said, and meant it. They would have done so before, if they'd known. “I'm sorry it took so long. We weren't paying attention.”

“Nah, let's not, that's not it,” Grantaire muttered. “It's no one's fault. Just horrible luck and shitty communication skills all around.”

Strange, how that could still be the dominant problem between them. They were both adults, after all, and Enjolras had literally studied communication and rhetorics as part of his degree – none of which seemed to do him any good when it came to Grantaire. But that was old news. Grantaire and him worked according to different rules, that was how it had always been, but it didn't mean they couldn't get better. “What is it you do need from us?”

Grantaire shrugged. “To trust that I'll ask for help if I need it? Although that's probably demanding a lot coming from a guy who says the kind of stuff I do. I don't know.”

Something Combeferre had said to him suddenly came back to Enjolras with no warning. It had sounded like an empty phrase then, such a normal part of speech that Enjolras had forgotten about it. Now, he remembered, remembered how he'd insisted that all this was asking too much of Grantaire, and Combeferre's response – _Shouldn't you let him be the judge of that?_

“It's not,” Enjolras said. “Of course it's not.” His impulse from this morning was back, and he forced it down, the heat and lack of sleep not quite enough to let him abandon any semblance of discretion for good.

Grantaire rubbed the back of his neck, his other hand going back to fidgeting with the camera. “Okay,” he said. “Uh, cool.” Then, with a crooked smile, “I think that gives us permission to drop the topic.”

“All right,” Enjolras said quietly. He watched Grantaire's profile, thinking about how he'd been here soaking up the sun for almost an hour, and only seemed to have a tinge of red on his cheeks now.

Yesterday, at a loss for the right thing to say or do, he'd tried to come up with a point of reference, and realised that he barely had anything to go on – few conversations alone, no touches, hardly anything more than the occasional and slightly awkward kind word. They'd hugged once, from what Enjolras recalled, and there was a fair chance that Grantaire didn't remember that.

Grantaire, wary of the silence, cleared his throat. “Not to sound like an asshole,” he said, “but is everything all right?”

“You think asking if I'm all right makes you sound like an asshole?”

“It kind of does, when the only reason I'm asking is that you're acting weird. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Enjolras said, already missing the softness from just a moment ago that had evaporated so quickly. Not that Grantaire didn't have a point; he _was_ acting weird, he was feeling weird. It was technically still the morning, and he had already wanted some many things today.

Right now, he wanted to blame the heat for the constant buzz in his mind. “I'm fine. I think... not getting that much sleep might have thrown me off a little, but I'm okay.”

Grantaire pulled a face. “And I woke you early for the Little Mermaid,” he said. “Sorry, that sucks.”

“No, it wasn't your fault.” Enjolras closed his eyes, his fingers wrapped tight around the railing as he tried to cool them against the iron. “I was actually just coming back here to tell you I'd try to sleep in the car? It's cooler down there, and we'll be on here for another few hours, I might as well...”

“Oh, uh, sure. Yeah. That's fair.” Grantaire looked frustrated with his own lack of eloquence and he waved Enjolras off. “Jesus. Don't mind me, just, uh. You go sleep. Maybe it'll knock you out for fourteen hours and when you wake up, we'll be home.”

“It's not possible to go from here to Paris in fourteen hours.”

“Since we're about to go through Germany, where it's totally legal to keep up a steady average speed of 180 kilometres per hour, I think you'll find it's very possible.” He smiled at Enjolras' eyeroll. “Sorry. Have a nap; if the ship sinks, I'll wake you.”

 

Such drastic measures weren't necessary – for one, because the ship didn't sink, and then also because Enjolras only dozed in odd twenty-minute-intervals. He was curled up on the passenger's seat, with all their luggage piled up in the back leaving very little room to recline, and tried to ignore the fact that he'd inevitably wake up with a crick in his neck. The following hours were a strange haze of drifting into and out of sleep, with the only interruptions being one or the other announcement through speakers, and, after about two hours, Grantaire.

“Shit, sorry.” He winced as soon as he saw Enjolras blink at him; he must have been trying to be quiet.

“It's fine,” Enjolras muttered, watching Grantaire reach over to the back seat. “What do you need?”

“I was just going to get my phone and then, uh, piss off to the restaurant or something.” He smiled, apologetic. “Even I can only go so long up there without getting sun stroke.”

“You can stay here,” Enjolras offered, unthinking. Grantaire froze. “Only if you want to, obviously,” he added. “I don't mind. It's the quietest place on the whole ship, probably, I won't keep you from taking advantage of that.”

Grantaire still looked unsure, somehow like both the spooked animal and the person trying not to scare it away. “Are you sure?”

“Of course.” Why wouldn't he be? Outside the times where he wasn't stressed or in a bad mood, Enjolras generally enjoyed company, and Grantaire was usually the first in line to supply it to people whether they wanted it or not. He hadn't minded practically establishing squatter's rights in Enjolras' room while they'd still been in Bergen – but then, in retrospect Enjolras wondered if Combeferre might have had a hand in that to make sure Enjolras wasn't on his own.

“You can use my e-reader, too, if you get bored,” Enjolras suggested. “Or the laptop. I don't mind.”

That offer seemed to be the confirmation Grantaire needed. “All right,” he said, still vaguely wary. He left the door open as he got into the driver's seat, propping his feet up against the door frame. “This feels like the equivalent of spending the summer in your parents' basement with pizza and your computer.”

Enjolras leaned back again and yawned. “I think you just called me a loser,” he said then, with mock-reprimand.

“I called us both losers. Totally fair.” The briefest flash of a smile in return, and then, for the second time today, “Go to sleep, Enjolras.”

He got a little less sleep after that, but he didn't mind. Time went by more quickly this way, with both of them passing the laptop back and forth until its battery died, talking, planning the route, going through some more of Grantaire's photos, and trying to catch any of their friends online to text them. Enjolras enjoyed it, and he wondered, not without regret, if there was a way they could have reached this earlier and, in consequence, spent more time like this – with nothing between them, with genuinely being friends.

 

It was afternoon by the time the ferry docked in Travemünde, Germany, and the sun was high and scorching and, in Enjolras' opinion, awful. According to the car thermometer, they were suffering thirty-three degrees, which effectively cut off any desire they might have had to spend any time outside the car at all. That, at least, Enjolras had assumed.

Their route was planned out to avoid the larger roads while they were still in the north of the country, because staying off those meant also staying away from traffic jams caused by everyone rushing towards the sea for their summer vacation. In consequence, they progressed steadily, but not at anything resembling speed that Grantaire had declared possible earlier.

“We should try to get gas somewhere,” Grantaire pointed out eventually. They were on a narrow road through the country that was scenic to the point of looking abandoned. It was definitely the right one, as Enjolras had confirmed, but it wasn't easy on the gears. “Plus some snacks, I'm starving.”

“And I need to withdraw cash,” Enjolras said. “Let's stop at the next chance. Maybe they'll have souvenirs; I still don't have gifts for everyone.”

“It's not fair to demand that when your friend group is that big.” Grantaire sighed. “Who's still missing?”

Enjolras counted in his head. “Cosette, Bahorel, Musichetta, Courfeyrac... and Éponine.”

“Huh. Any ideas?”

“Not really.” He never had, when pressed. Giving gifts was tricky when there was pressure. “I thought maybe something literary for Éponine, an original-language thing by some German playwright? But other than that...”

“No, that's good.” Grantaire nodded approvingly. “We'll just get Courfeyrac local booze with a fancy name. Musichetta... Chocolate, Brothers Grimm's fairy tales? She'll love anything. Oh!” He frowned and looked out of the window on his side. “Speak of the devil. That's it, we're stopping.”

Enjolras blinked. They had been driving by nothing but fields and the occasional farm for thirty minutes; there was nothing here. “Are you seeing a gas station I'm not seeing?”

“Better.” Grantaire grinned, and as they pulled over, Enjolras knew his answer before he said it. “I'm seeing a flower meadow.”

Flower meadow was quite a generous term, Enjolras thought, because at first sight, the large field that went down the steep slope by the side of the road seemed to be mostly made up of overgrown grass and thistles. The specks of colour scattered throughout only revealed themselves the longer Enjolras looked: some red, some blue, very little yellow.

“Okay,” he said slowly, reminding himself that if Grantaire was driving him across Europe, he had no right to deny him a delight as simple as a flower meadow – not that Enjolras personally saw the appeal of it, now that the heat was sweltering and the car felt like the most comfortable place to be.

Grantaire put on the handbrake. “There's an agenda behind this. Cosette does this thing – has she ever told you about that? Whenever she takes a trip somewhere, even if it's just, like, to see Marius' family or something equally uneventful, she finds flowers there and presses them. I think they end up in her journal, not sure, doesn't matter. So,” he gestured to the window, “free souvenirs with a super personal touch. Pretty much ideal.”

He wasn't wrong. Enjolras still thought to say something, briefly, about how it was above thirty degrees and how there were going to be other flower meadows and how they still had to figure out how to check into an abbey today, but by that point Grantaire, his bottle of sweet tea, and the scrapbook were already halfway down the hill.

The ground was soft and uneven, and Enjolras managed to roll his ankle twice as he followed Grantaire, both times uncomfortably reminding him that his feet were still healing. Grantaire had come to a halt in the shade of a tree and stood looking downwards to where a brook was winding through the dell. “Admit it,” he said and turned back to Enjolras, “there's no place Cosette would rather have pressed flowers from. No one would rather have pressed flowers from anywhere but here. _I'm_ suddenly into flowers, and I'm allergic.”

“All right.” Sometimes, surrender was the best way to win. “Which ones do we take?”

“I say cornflowers. Cosette likes blue,” Grantaire said, pointing to a spot near them where poppy red was mixing with the blue of cornflowers between the grass. “Pick out the pretty ones, we're not doing half-eaten petals or bent stems.”

“Does that really matter when we're killing them anyway?” Enjolras crouched to examine some of the flowers more closely; Grantaire did the same near him.

“Since we're killing them anyway, that's the only thing that matters.”

Pretty flowers weren't hard to find, despite Grantaire's criteria. They had collected too many to press within minutes, and sat down by a boulder closer to the road to sort through them.

The scrapbook was open between them, and Grantaire was leaning against the rock as he passed the flowers through his hands and occasionally slipped one between the pages. His curls fell into his eyes whenever he leaned over the book, letting the sun catch in them to bring out a softer shade of chestnut brown, and he was drumming against the bottle of Arizona next to him with his free hand, long fingers tapping out an unsteady rhythm. He looked lovely. Enjolras wondered if he knew.

Grantaire interrupted his pattern after a while and dug into the pocket of his shorts to find cigarettes. “Do you mind?”

Enjolras shook his head, lowering his eyes back to the scrapbook. “Ruining the idyllic imagery a little, but that's not a serious complaint.”

Grantaire laughed. It didn't sound happy, but there was a version of this conversation where Grantaire would have pushed for Enjolras to say the implied words out loud – _substitute addiction_ – and Enjolras might have taken the bait, not because he didn't see the trap, but because he liked conversations to be on even ground, and they would have ended up with one more disagreement. Maybe just skipping the animosity and replacing it with silence or a change of topic was the best they could do. Maybe Enjolras, after the past few days, had to level with Grantaire when it came to things that dug this deep, because as Grantaire had said earlier, those always seemed to concern him exclusively.

“Grantaire?”

Next to him, Grantaire exhaled smoke. “Hm?”

“I feel like I should explain what happened in the car yesterday.” He sought Grantaire's eyes, inquiring. “If you'd like to hear it.”

“Oh.” Grantaire frowned. “You didn't sound too thrilled about that idea yesterday.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean – you really, really didn't want to. You repeated that. More than once.”

“I like to think opinions can change.”

Grantaire laughed, helpless. “But within a _day_?”

“Depends on the day.” Enjolras held his gaze. Grantaire, under that scrutiny, seemed to grow uncomfortable. “Will you listen?”

“Is this...” Grantaire's hand started fidgeting again, moving from the scrapbook to his bottle and then to tear out small bunches of grass. “You realise you don't have to even the field here, yeah? That was, like, my whole point when I...”

“No, I know.” Finally, Enjolras looked away. “I've been thinking it was unfair for you not to know this from the beginning, I just didn't feel comfortable bringing it up until now. Now that I do, I think you should hear it, if you want to.”

Grantaire said nothing, but when Enjolras raised his eyes again, he nodded slowly, having steadied. Enjolras took a breath. It wasn't a fun story to tell, but the real humiliation only came when someone had already seen how extremely Enjolras reacted to something that, in the end, hadn't been very dramatic at all. Grantaire had seen it.

“I was in an accident when I was still in driving school,” he said, and then, because that was probably the most vital information, “but there weren't any serious consequences, and I wasn't the driver, I wasn't even hurt. I was just in the car when it happened.” Embarrassing fact number one: he'd simply been _there_ , and come out of the situation with what seemed like a more lasting state of shock than the rest of them, one that still rippled in his mind now. It made no sense. “Our teacher, she'd sometimes let more than one person in training drive along so we could observe each other, and that time, another guy was driving and I was in the back. He hit someone.” Enjolras swallowed. “A girl, she was twelve. I don't actually remember her name... Or the driver's.” He didn't remember his way home, and what he'd done after. His mind had done strange things to that day. “We were in the inner city, so he wasn't going very fast, but – well. You don't have to, of course. To do damage.”

Grantaire was listening, his expression carefully neutral, and he was slightly inclined toward Enjolras. Enjolras only realised now how softly he was talking.

“None of us saw her coming. She came from the left, I think she was running when we hit her, and she was flung over the windshield and the roof and landed behind the car. That sounds worse than it was,” he said quickly when Grantaire's expression twisted. “She bruised her shoulder and tailbone, and there were scrapes and cuts from the asphalt, but she was lucky under the circumstances. Nothing was broken, she hadn't cracked any ribs, her head was completely unharmed, she stayed conscious the entire time. Everything was fine, it was just...”

Just terrifying, for someone who had never before heard another human being genuinely scream in pain. For someone who had thought he had a realistic grasp of even the ugliest things in the world until he'd been shaken to the very foundation when confronted with a situation where no one had been in control. It had been so unexpected; perhaps that was the reason. He hadn't expected to be vulnerable in that specific way, he hadn't expected to feel strange phantom pain pulse in his own body when he'd heard the girl's injuries described.

“I think the shock made an impact that I didn't properly recover from, for whatever reason,” he said, slowly gathering himself again. “And it turned out pretty quickly after I was done with my licence that I would sometimes start screaming when someone was driving too quickly around pedestrians for my taste, and that I'd have anxiety attacks behind the wheel whenever I was driving in crowded places, so – I didn't drive. At home, I found ways to avoid it, and I moved to Paris less than a year later, where I didn't need it. I haven't been in a driver's seat in four years, and I'm rarely in cars to begin with, but that's the part you already know.”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes, and Enjolras, although he was determined and although he hadn't been genuinely nervous about an interaction like this in years, felt how his own pulse quickened.

“You – this happened during a driving lesson, and you still did your licence afterwards?”

“Obviously.” Enjolras stared. Grantaire was taking issue with the wrong detail. “I only had two more weeks to go before the test, I did them, I passed, I drove less then ten times again after that. I don't think I could even do it now, not properly.”

“Ah.” Grantaire seemed to have forgotten his cigarette. He looked down, still frowning as if trying to figure something out. Enjolras waited, waited, waited, but the judgement he was bracing himself for didn't come. “That must have messed you up even further, two weeks of training while traumatised. I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't – ” He hadn't planned for this. “I wasn't in a lasting state of shock afterwards, I went on as usual. It took a while for it to become a problem and somehow...” He shrugged. “I haven't had reason or need to fix it. I'm confident that I could fix it, if I made an effort. This particular situation is actually the first time I've been genuinely upset that I never did.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Grantaire passed a hand over his eyes. “You didn't think it mattered to deal with something that was eating at you until it affected someone else as well, did you? That's so – _you_. Seriously. Only you, Enjolras.”

“It's not like that,” Enjolras said. Grantaire always did this, making things either larger or smaller in nobility than they actually were. “It wasn't limiting me, or at least very little. I had no reason to confront this because I can walk or take trains nearly everywhere, but this time, we had to twist our plans, yours included, around a problem that I refused to tackle in the past. You were drawn into it, that's why I feel like you deserve to know.”

“And I'm grateful for that,” Grantaire said, sincere to an unusual degree. “I mean, it's kind of horrible because I'm literally the worst person to talk to about this stuff, I'm no Combeferre, I can't do the thing where I say exactly what you need to hear and that turns everything around, but, you know. I can say I'm sorry that happened to you, it sounds fucking awful for a seventeen year old kid to witness, and it's understandable that it's too much to recover from without help. I can tell you for the tenth time, probably, that I don't mind doing this whole thing at all, and any guilt you might still be feeling about it is misplaced.” He chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. “Yeah, that's about all I've got.”

Enjolras had nothing to say in response. His cheeks were even warmer now than they had already been from the heat, and part of his mind supplied him with the information that a thank you for the understanding might be appropriate, but he couldn't quite catch up.

“Were the others okay?” Grantaire asked softly. “Your teacher, I mean? And the guy who was driving?”

Enjolras nodded. “The girl's family didn't take legal steps against our teacher, even though they could have. Again, lucky in the circumstances.” He sighed. “From what our driving school told me, I know that the paramedics gave the driver something to calm him down, which – well, he needed that, I know he was shaken. He was in shock while we were still at the site, I tried to talk him down, but he barely seemed to hear me. He took his own test just a week later, though, and he passed.”

“Hm.” Grantaire looked thoughtful. “And the girl?”

“She spent a night at the hospital just to be certain, but she was fine.” Enjolras remembered that, vaguely. He'd been on the phone with the driving school who had been on the phone with the hospital, and he'd only been able to fall asleep once he'd made sure of that information about three times. “Not... _fine_ , of course. Bone bruises hurt badly, and they don't tend to come with an adrenaline rush in the way fractures do, that's why she – that's why everyone first thought it was worse than it turned out to be, because she seemed to be in incredible pain. Essentially, there was pain, and a lot of it, but no lasting damage.” A hollow triumph, really. No twelve year old girl should have to rely on pain medication to make it through her school day.

Grantaire's expression had changed again. He had a little sister, Enjolras remembered. “I'm sorry.”

“There's no need.” It hadn't been their fault. It was, perhaps, Enjolras' fault that this story needed to be told at all, but there was nothing to be done about that. “Just... now you know.”

Again, Grantaire nodded. “That I do. Uhm. I'm guessing you don't want me to pay attention to anything special now that I know? I've been avoiding the whole driving in the inner city-thing since Gothenburg, but other than that...”

“No, I really just wanted to clear things up.” If they tried to lay the rest of their trip out to cater to him, Enjolras was going to lose it for good. “Not telling you at all was was... it didn't feel fair.”

“All right.” Grantaire was running a finger along the edge of the scrapbook, uncertain. “I'm glad we had this conversation on a flower meadow,” he said then, and forced the hint of a smile. “Another of those talks in a very dramatic place, and I might have suspected you of doing this on purpose.”

“I think we can both agree that this entire trip has gone beyond normal rules of coincidence and luck.” Enjolras slid the last of his cornflowers between the scrapbook pages. “Perhaps it's time to embrace that.”

“So adventurous,” Grantaire said and stubbed out his cigarette against the stone. “I never thought I'd see the day.”

Enjolras closed his eyes and leaned back for a moment, breathing in the warm, sweet-tinged air. He hadn't realised before how much this, keeping Grantaire in the dark on something so substantial, had been weighing him down, but it was painfully obvious now – everything was lighter, the feeling of guilt had receded, if not disappeared, and even the summer heat, for a very short moment, felt welcome.

“Let's go,” he said, slowly getting to his feet. “It's getting late, and we have a monastery to find.”

Grantaire followed unquestioningly, then started up the car and pulled them back onto the road. They had been driving for ten minutes, Courfeyrac's surprisingly mellow Germany-mix filling the now comfortable silence, when Grantaire turned to him again, his brow knit.

“Did you say monastery?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coming back to this cross-European happy-go-lucky road trip fic felt like the most comforting thing to do after the news.  
> To anyone who might have waited, huge apologies for the absence, it was completely the Big Bang fic's fault, but that one's done and this story has all my attention to itself again. :) Also, because I think I've never mentioned this: there are going to be ten chapters, so we're more than halfway through.  
> [Here's](http://ericcahan.com/portfolio/sky-series/) the series of sky pictures that inspired R's.  
> You're always welcome to yell at me [here](http://lesamis.tumblr.com/). Thank you for reading! ♥


	7. Travemünde - Meschede

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a monastery isn't quite as expected, Musichetta is a hero, and Grantaire readjusts his world view.

“Walk me through this again.”

News of their accommodation arrangements for the night had perplexed Grantaire so much that he'd needed coffee – despite more than thirty degrees and a healthy dose of sleep last night. There were some things that travelling on different continents had not prepared him for.

“It's... rather straight-forward.” Enjolras was sitting across from him, picking at a fruit cocktail with a plastic fork. The rest stop didn't offer the most refined snacks, but Enjolras seemed content. Maybe it was the sheer euphoria of paying with euros again; Grantaire wouldn't put it past him. “We find the monastery, we talk to someone who's hopefully talked to Combeferre, we spend the night, we don't have to pay, we say thank you, we leave.”

“Are people who aren't catholic even allowed in there?”

Enjolras frowned, but didn't snap. It was strange to see him be too patient for his own good – that wasn't normally his job. Perhaps he really hadn't caught on to the fact that Grantaire was joking yet. “I told you Combeferre stayed there.”

“So?”

Enjolras narrowed his eyes. “Did you spend several years being friends with Combeferre and somehow not realising he was Muslim?”

“No, but wasn't he there on some sort of interfaith dialogue thing? Maybe that gets you a special pass.”

“You know,” said Enjolras, arching an eyebrow, “Combeferre wouldn't have suggested it if they really didn't accept guests from other denominations, but at this point I'm more worried about them rejecting _you_ on the basis of a non-cooperative attitude, so...” He stopped. “You're doing this on purpose, aren't you.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“Fantastic.” Enjolras bit into a cherry. “We don't have to stay there,” he said once he'd swallowed. “There will be hostels in the area as well, or we could just drive through to Belgium, it'd only take a few more hours. It's up to you.”

“Hey, I'll shave off all my hair before I turn down free accommodation,” Grantaire reminded him. “And people may think I look weird now, but bald me is on a whole other level. We're talking Lord Crumb here. Striking resemblance.”

Enjolras blinked.

“Nalic Nodians? Bad Taste?” Enjolras shook his head. “Peter Jackson's foray into horrible splatter sci fi? No?” In a way, it was a relief. Enjolras deserved to be confronted with nothing but excellent, intellectually stimulating cinema, and that seemed to have worked out fine so far.

“You look nice,” Enjolras said, out of nowhere. Grantaire looked up at him, following the instinct to search for the hint of sarcasm that _had_ to show in his eyes, but there was nothing there. “I was going to say something earlier, while we were sorting through the flowers. Summer becomes you.”

Grantaire stared, suddenly unable to look away. He wasn't sure if it had been intentional, but Enjolras had effectively cut through the comfortable mood and left them both floating in limbo with nothing but those few words. This wasn't their ordinary terrain, this wasn't the kind of situation they should ever find themselves in.

And, oh, the flowers. Grantaire's eyes were still itching from those – damn flower meadows and their appealing colour scheme that was attractive enough to make him ignore his allergies. Damn flower meadows and the backdrop they offered for Enjolras' openness, something Grantaire had hardly ever witnessed before, and his rare display of vulnerability. Damn tiny silver convertibles that forced them into each other's space even when Enjolras wanted to nap and Grantaire only wanted to grab his phone and instead they ended up talking and swapping stories and killing time for three hours. Damn this whole trip.

It occurred to Grantaire briefly that with all those things he wanted to curse, today seemed like a horrible day to seek out a holy place.

“So,” he cleared his throat and tore his eyes away from Enjolras, heat stinging from the sun on his shoulders and from a rush of blood to his cheeks that he was determined to ignore, “uh, that thing is going to be where, exactly?”

“Here,” Enjolras leaned over to flick open the road atlas on a marked page. “Let's see... There. Meschede. It can't be much further than 200 kilometres from here, and if we stay on the A7 until we've almost reached Hannover, we can switch to the A2, and...” He traced the further route with a finger. “Then we'll see. It doesn't look too complicated.”

“Watch us find a way to fuck it up,” Grantaire murmured. “So we're staying at – that town tonight, and then go all the way home tomorrow, hm? That sounds almost achievable.”

“It's what I'd have suggested,” Enjolras said. His eyes trailed across the map as if he was trying to commit it to memory. Grantaire wouldn't be that surprised if he actually could. “Unless you'd like another stop. At this point, it wouldn't make much of a difference.”

“Now that's just toying with my feelings.” Grantaire tried to look reproachful and was pretty certain he was failing miserably. “What happened to straight home? We had a deal with a handshake and everything.”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras said slowly, and lowered his fruit cup, “I think we're past acting as if the straight home plan ever had a chance of working out. We were past that on the second day.”

It seemed like an instinct, at this point, to say sorry, but Grantaire stopped himself first. “Not having gone on vacation for the past five years finally catching up with you?”

“Maybe.” Enjolras looked pensive. “Neither of us got a vacation this time, though, did we? You spent so much time in the dorm with me in Bergen, you didn't take any pictures... and my semester break technically only just started. Maybe it was a waste to say we'd get home as quickly as possible.”

Grantaire said nothing, worried that anything he might say would inevitably give away how much this took him by surprise. They were practically home already – or, well, maybe not practically home, but with determination and a little bit of luck, it would even be possible to make it to Paris by some time tonight. It wasn't far, and there were few distances with a speed limit on the larger roads until the Belgian border. On the other hand, some of the smaller towns around the border were supposed to be lovely, and they'd be driving through Belgium for a considerable time, and Grantaire had never really taken time to actually _be_ in Belgium instead of just driving through, and Enjolras could speak as much French there as he liked, so if they were to take a day to see some places before driving the last bit, if Enjolras was up for it...

Then, he reminded himself, he'd be shooting himself in the foot. He was doing badly as it was, wallowing in misplaced frustration and self-pity over things he'd accepted ages ago. But Enjolras really hadn't had a vacation, that was why Grantaire had suggested this in the first place, a week ago, and even though they'd both settled on the opposite of a leisurely road trip with longer stops and several overnight stays, the universe had worked against them so far. Who was Grantaire to try and argue with the universe?

“I mean,” Grantaire said, “we still have good part of the route ahead of us. Anywhere you want to catch up on the whole holiday thing, we can go.”

Enjolras smiled. It looked slightly restrained. “We'll see,” he said. “For now, let's focus on figuring out today's directions.”

 

Back on the road, Grantaire casually asked if the speed they were keeping up was okay, and Enjolras nodded without hesitation every time. It really was just inner city traffic, then. Knowing that was a relief: so far, while Grantaire had been desperate to keep Enjolras from situations that might upset him, he'd never been able to ask what exactly to avoid. The details had been helpful – the more specific the anxiety, the easier it was to circumvent.

For a moment, when Enjolras had told him, Grantaire had genuinely felt hurt, and it had taken him every quiet second they'd had since then to understand why. Enjolras' story wasn't exactly graphic or gorey, and the fact that he hadn't felt comfortable sharing it for so long was an uncomfortable reminder of how distant they normally were from each other. In the past, Grantaire had revealed things because he'd been forced to, and Enjolras had remained at a distance, because he could. It had been a privilege he'd probably been happy to make use of.

Things were different now, though, and Grantaire took comfort in the fact that everything Enjolras had shared had been offered freely. He was reasonably certain that Enjolras had sounded reluctant only because he'd been embarrassed, by his own unwillingness to admit to having been vulnerable or by the impact the event had made on him or by something equally unreasonable. Grantaire may not have expected that particular kind of sensitivity in Enjolras, but perhaps he had been wrong in that as well – something was always at the base of idealism, and a surplus of sympathy fit comfortably into the array of things Grantaire knew made up Enjolras' personality. He seemed to handle this softness with discipline and rationality, as he did everything, and that thought kept gnawing at Grantaire with cruel insistence.

 

The monastery, when they reached it, was slightly removed from the town itself and on a steep hill, steep enough that Grantaire feared for the engine's wellbeing as they drove up. What he assumed to be the main house when they passed it was a modern building, not pretty, but imposing with its massive front and few windows, and Grantaire couldn't quite help his disappointment. He wasn't sure what he'd expected, maybe something built in pre-industrial times or at least with a vaguely Gothic vibe. “Probably the one monastery in the country that insisted they have a renovation in the eighties,” he muttered as they drove past in search of parking. “Aren't we lucky.”

“I'm a little relieved,” Enjolras said. He was looking out of the window, his eyes stuck on the red brick building. “This looks nicer than what I had in mind.”

Something came back to Grantaire, suddenly. “Wait,” he said, “I totally forgot, you said that you had a thing about churches, right? Like, a childhood nemesis thing?”

“It didn't have anything to do with enmity. It's not as if churches fight back when you kick them.”

“You didn't.”

“No, of course not.”

Grantaire was helpless when Enjolras made jokes, it was like witnessing a rare natural spectacle. Not the breathtaking, terrifying kind, but the odd yet beautiful kind – less like northern lights and more like glow worm caves. It wasn't easy to handle.

“I didn't hate them when I was little,” Enjolras went on, “they scared me. I've left that behind for the most part. Just – if this had been one of those large, old ones, it would probably have reminded me.” He pulled a face. “And there have been enough strange psychological reactions from my part on this trip, I should think.”

Grantaire kept himself from commenting on that just in time. He didn't say that Enjolras at his mental worst was still somehow more stable than Grantaire on his better days, he didn't comment on how fucking admirable it was just how well he had himself in check, and he didn't say that whatever strange psychological reactions Enjolras _did_ have were nothing to be ashamed of. It was strange and a little scary how Enjolras somehow didn't seem to feel entitled to have things he grappled with, things that gave his composure one or the other crack, but Grantaire wasn't qualified or motivated to try and talk that out. If any of their conversations went south, they couldn't just storm off. Frankly, the sheer number of sensitive topics they'd managed to discuss on this trip without clawing each other's faces off was astonishing.

Having parked the car on what Grantaire had guessed was the space intended for visitors – the Lord would forgive him if it wasn't, he supposed – they made for the main building, still a little intimidating with its heavy doors and complete lack of embellishment. A friendly, if dishevelled, monk completely with habit and neatly trimmed hair greeted them in the entrance hall, but a few sentences through a half-English conversation with him, they were interrupted by another one who instantly addressed them in French. Grantaire had trouble keeping up; he still hadn't gotten over the whole robe thing.

“Your friend was a great help while he was here,” the second monk explained as he led them away from the entrance hall to a small, office-like space down a hall. He was still quite young, had introduced himself as Brother Elias, and spoke fluent, if simple, French. Grantaire was slightly surprised, unsure what he'd been expecting. A bald elderly man refusing to talk to them in anything but Latin, probably. “We're happy to help in return when we can. That aside, we don't get many chances to practice our languages around here, so that makes for a nice change.”

“We're very grateful,” Enjolras said, and Grantaire felt a glance on him only for a second, as if it was necessary to check that he was behaving. The scrutiny wasn't wholly undeserved, but it was still a little offending. “Combeferre said you weren't comfortable accepting money, but if we can offer anything in exchange...”

“You're certainly welcome to see if anything in our store interests you before you leave,” the Brother said with a weak smile, “but please don't feel obligated. You're our guests.”

Grantaire already saw it coming – Enjolras was going to clean out every shelf in that store.

“That said,” the monk went on, “I'm afraid that we currently have several student groups in the guest house, so we can only offer you a room in the House of Silence. I know that's a little unexpected.” He looked genuinely apologetic, which was worrying considering _House of Silence_ already sounded like something out of a horror movie. Grantaire nudged Enjolras' foot with his.

“Honestly, I think neither of us had any expectations at all,” Enjolras said, bless him and his diplomacy, and nudged Grantaire in return. “Wherever you have room for us will do great.”

“It's not a question of comfort, you see,” Brother Elias said carefully. “The guest house is for anyone, and of course, we welcome whoever wants to spend time in the House of Silence as well, but contrary to the guest house, it does have a few house rules.”

“You're letting us stay for free,” Enjolras said with all the calmness and patience Grantaire didn't currently have. “Adhering to the rules seems like the least we could do in return.”

“It might seem a little demanding, considering people normally come to the House of Silence specifically with those rules in mind.” Brother Elias looked from one to the other, uneasy. “It's a place of reflection and meditation, and we normally ask of all guests to leave any cell phones or laptops or electronic devices in general behind, with the exception of medical equipment. For the duration of your stay, we would ask you to do the same.”

The weight of Enjolras pressing the tip of his shoe down on Grantaire's toes stopped Grantaire from saying anything – he'd already half-opened his mouth, not even in protest, he wasn't sure what would have come out if Enjolras hadn't reacted, but it was probably for the best that they didn't find out.

“That's very little to ask,” Enjolras said. “We'd be happy to.”

With his obvious relief, the monk's smile reappeared, and Grantaire felt vaguely offended at how terrified he must have been at the prospect of asking two millennials to give up their phones for a single night. “In that case,” he said, “let's move straight on to the paperwork.”

When they were shown to the house, Grantaire quickly adjusted his genre of choice for the hypothetical hit movie titled _House of Silence_ from horror flick to pseudo-intellectual dystopia. The building from the outside was little more than a massive block of concrete with large windows lining the sides. Its outlines were completely clean and the grey of the concrete provided a stark contrast to the bright green of the grounds surrounding it – all in all, his inner photographer greatly approved, and the rest of him rebelled.

“We consider the House of Silence a sort of self-contained abbey,” Brother Elias explained as he lead them inside. “All structures were kept minimalistic so that people may focus on the essential. It takes a while to get used to, but most guests come to appreciate the simplicity after a while.”

The inside mirrored the outside: not a single wall had any wallpaper, the concrete exposed, which gave the impression of a building still in the framing stage, but the light that streamed through the large, floor-to-ceiling windows and caught beautifully against the wooden floors lent a calm and airy mood to the space. The monk pointed out rooms as they walked – “The refectory, then there's a room for meditation right ahead, and a small oratory through here for any form of prayer” – before he showed them to the guest rooms on the upper floor.

“All rooms but this one are singles.” He stopped before a door at the far end of the hallway. “You're welcome to have breakfast at the refectory tomorrow morning, and whenever you're ready, there's a locker room downstairs for phones and the like.”

“It normally takes me less time than this to decide if a place is completely depressing or not,” Grantaire muttered once the monk had left. “I mean, way less time. We're talking seconds here.”

Enjolras, unlocking the door, smiled briefly. “You'll form your opinion, I have no doubt about that.”

“Always good to know you have faith in me.”

The door was pushed open, and the first thing Grantaire noticed was simply light, bright enough to blind him for a moment. Then, once he'd blinked, the source of it: the wall opposite them was _just_ window, a window that lead out to the orchard they'd seen walking up to the building, and the sun, still high despite the late hour, was bathing the room in yellow light.

It was all the same, other than that: concrete walls, high ceilings, wooden floors, two simple, white chairs by a desk, and twin beds lined up along the right hand wall. Grantaire blinked again. “Right,” he said. “I've formed my opinion.”

Enjolras, not as prone to openly expressing his awe, walked over to the window, letting his bag slip on one of the chairs. Grantaire quickly surveyed the rest of the room; the bathroom was tiny and perfunctory, but they _had_ one, in a place that was letting them stay for free, and there was a single bookcase with a small selection of books, non-fiction and the odd novel, and Enjolras definitely had a point: this was too nice not to pay for.

“So,” Grantaire muttered, turning around, “what in the _world_ did Combeferre do here?”

“Leave a lasting impression, apparently.” Enjolras tore his eyes away from the view – which was gorgeous, the apple orchard in a steep decline allowing them to see the town as well, a church tower sticking up oddly between rows of houses – and picked up his bag. “It still feels terrible. I'd assumed they'd give us something humble, not a perfect view and an en-suite bathroom.” He let his gaze wander around the room as well. “This is better than most of the places we paid for. And he still thought he was demanding a lot with asking us to give up our phones.”

Grantaire hummed. He'd been thinking about that last part, because, well... “They won't actually know if we've handed in our stuff or not,” he said. “I mean, it's not like they're going to check.”

Still going through his bag, Enjolras rolled his eyes. “I know you wouldn't, Grantaire, don't make yourself out to be worse than you are.” Then, hesitant, “Although we should probably ask for a spot to charge our phones in the morning so we make the stretch tomorrow.”

Grantaire watched him, the way he almost shone standing by the window with light streaming in all around him, and asked before he could convince himself not to. “So what's the stretch going to be?”

Enjolras stopped moving. “I don't know,” he said after a moment, eyes flicking over to meet Grantaire's. “It's up to us, isn't it?”

“Up to you, I'd say.” Grantaire bit down on his lip. “I'm down for anything at this point. Ask me to take a super sharp turn and drive to Prague; I won't say no. Say we're heading straight for Paris tomorrow at 6 in the morning; fine with me. I mean that,” he added, seeing the doubt in Enjolras' look.

“Hm.” Enjolras looked down at his hands. Silence stretched out until he said, almost careful, “Have you ever been to Liège?”

“Haven't had the pleasure.” Something in Grantaire's chest fluttered, and he was slightly disgusted with himself, but at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to care. Enjolras wanted to – well, was entertaining the thought to, at least, was _genuinely considering to_ – prolong their vacation. “Love to, though. We were going to pass through, anyway, right?”

Enjolras nodded. “It's directly on the route. I went when I was little, once, for the Christmas market.” He looked at Grantaire again, uncertain. “It might be nice to be see it in the summer.”

“Sure,” Grantaire said, hoping desperately that he sounded even remotely casual. “I mean, it can't disappoint me, I have no expectations. And we can stay as long or, uh, not-long as you like. The drive from there to Paris is what, three hours?”

“Make it four. We have a tendency for lagging.”

“Hah.” It was strange to deal with, all the “we” and “us.” Earlier, Enjolras had spoken for both of them so naturally and easily that Grantaire almost hadn't noticed, but now, it rang strange in the same dizzying, incredible way that the thought of Enjolras wanting to spend an additional day with him did. Nothing made sense. Grantaire didn't want to question it, so he forbid himself, but a steady distrust to the situation in general remained nestled in his chest even as he pushed it down. “Hard to imagine what the others must be thinking,” he said. “If I know Bossuet right, he isn't ruling abduction out.”

“We can set that straight once we're home. Delays or not, it's not as if we won't arrive eventually.” Enjolras held up the e-reader he'd unearthed from his bag, and also nodded at Grantaire's phone that he'd dropped on the bed. “We should probably get that over with as soon as possible.”

After some initial confusion, a monk in the entrance hall showed them to the locker rooms. “It's our personal recommendation not to take your phone even to use outside the house,” the monk explained in slightly slow English, “but it's your choice, of course. There's a phone free for use on the ground floor of the main building.”

Grantaire locked their things in, still slightly unwilling. He wasn't the type to be glued to a phone all hours of the day, but he did like to do as he pleased.

“Thank you for showing us,” Enjolras said, still talking to the monk in the doorway. “The building is beautiful, but everything does look... similar.”

“It takes some time to get used to,” the monk agreed. “If you've only just arrived, you must have missed dinner.”

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder and met Enjolras' look.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, “about that.”

Aside from the fact that the circumstances were strange and that going out for a fancy dinner with Enjolras was a pretty terrifying prospect, Grantaire would be lying if he said he hadn't been looking forward to this since yesterday. Food, _real_ food, was such a beautiful promise that it was hard not to get excited about when you'd been living off things wrapped in plastic for some time.

Enjolras seemed to feel the same way, and suggested leaving for dinner as soon as they'd both had some time to recover from the drive. The monk had recommended them a kind of place he'd struggled to find a proper translation for and then decisively titled a 'country inn,' and Enjolras did his best to remember the exact directions as they drove.

“Okay,” he said when Grantaire had turned onto a larger road similar to the one they'd taken to get here, “I think we're meant to go straight on until there's a lake to the right. I'm... guessing we can't miss that.”

“Let's hope so,” Grantaire murmured. “Still, I'm pretty sure the town has restaurants, too. We saw some.”

“The plan was to get good food, though, wasn't it?” Enjolras looked at him with slight reproach. “That was your suggestion. Apparently, the best food is out of town. We're not really in a position to question that.”

“Of course we are,” Grantaire said, “he's a monk! He's not supposed to know about good food. If anything, he should be able to tell us which bakery has the best stale bread to give away.”

“Grantaire.”

“Right.” Grantaire cleared his throat. “No way to talk about the people who are treating us with extreme kindness for no reason. Sorry, I'm just seriously terrified at the thought of having a good meal jeopardised.”

After a beat of silence, Enjolras made a soft noise of recognition. “I forgot about that,” he said, “I don't know _how_ I forgot about it, but – you really care about food.”

“That's the understatement of the century.”

“No, I mean – didn't you use to write reviews at some point? It feels like I dreamt that.”

“You didn't,” Grantaire said, although it was difficult to hide the surprise in his voice. It made no sense for Enjolras to remember something so trivial, not to mention obscure. “That was years ago, though. I think we'd only just met.” He'd still been at school and on a scholarship back then, so writing the reviews had been for fun far more than actual financial necessity. There'd been something charming about ordering whatever you liked at the charge of a high-class lifestyle magazine, an illusion of power, perhaps. And, well. There had been the food. And the wine. “Good times.”

“Right, I'm not sure I really have to say this,” Enjolras said, “but please don't slip into your food critic persona in a rustic restaurant in rural Germany.”

“That's the most poetic sentence I've ever heard you say.” Grantaire grinned. “Also, ouch. What happened to your faith in me?”

“I must have left it back in the room,” Enjolras said drily. “Earlier, see, when you suggested lying to a kind monk.”

Grantaire was struck for a moment by how long it had taken them to get here, to a place where such things could be said without being biting, without having to be laughed off to hide that they did, in fact, sting. And it wasn't a one-way-street, Grantaire had said worse things in the past, hurtful things that he'd wished he could take back. It felt good to laugh and actually mean it.

Enjolras was watching at him when Grantaire glanced over, something soft and curious in his look. Lucky for Grantaire, who wasn't sure how long he could stand being looked at that way without crumbling to pieces, Enjolras still took his duties as navigator seriously. “I think that's it,” he said, eyes flicking away and out of the window where the edge of a lake had come into view. “Turn left at that traffic light.”

The road they turned into was narrow and winding, and the restaurant, once they'd reached it, fit perfectly into its surroundings: the half-wilderness just off the road was bursting with life, now that summer was there and people didn't quite seem to have noticed and taken time to tame the sprouting leaves and vines, and the restaurant was an old, timber-framed house hidden between oak trees and tall brick walls.

“Don't panic,” Grantaire said as he put on the handbrake, “but I think we might have wandered into a painting.”

Enjolras gave him a quick look, frowning slightly. “I'm not that concerned,” he noted. He'd brought the camera, though, and snapped a picture of the restaurant before depositing it back in his messenger bag.

The patio was lovely, but crowded, which was enough for Enjolras to dismiss it and walk inside where they let themselves be led to a smaller table by an arched windowfront. It was quieter there, which Grantaire assumed Enjolras preferred, the way he preferred listening from talking when he was in a group and the way he, as Grantaire had lately learned, preferred tea from coffee.

“I'll bring your menus in a moment.” The waitress who had showed them inside was the very image of professionalism, had greeted them in French when she'd heard them speak, continued in English, and could light a tealight inside the jar without burning herself. “Would you like the wine list?”

“No, thank you.” Enjolras' smile had the exact same tone as the one of the waitress, something distanced and measured, but not cold. It was admirable, really.

Enjolras looked back at Grantaire once the waitress had left, and caught Grantaire staring. “Everything all right?”

“I was just thinking,” Grantaire said, and went with the first thing that came into his mind, “it's a shame with that whole international relations and politics thing. You'd be an excellent waiter.”

“Ah.” Enjolras nodded. “I like to think I was, actually.”

“No way.”

“So hard to picture, is it?” Enjolras' fingers ran along the edge of a cloth napkin. Grantaire was aware of everything about him, but it was difficult to lose focus, if only because Enjolras was so good at commanding it. Not being mentally present wholly and completely when talking to him was impossible.

“Not hard to picture, I have a pretty vivid mental image right now,” Grantaire said, then cleared his throat. “Hard to make sense of, though. Why did you need a job like that? When did you have _time_ for a job like that?”

“During my last year of school. I wanted to save up for moving to Paris, and working evenings went well with my schedule, for the most part.” He smiled. “Not that it was particularly stimulating work. Looking back on it, most nights just went by in a haze.”

“Ah, the service working trance.” Grantaire grinned. “I'm familiar with that. Did you also have that thing halfway through a shift where you're reasonably sure you can't stay on your feet and it sort of feels as if this other entity takes over and keeps your body moving, but it's definitely not you?”

Enjolras' laugh was soft and sincere, and Grantaire's chest warmed. “No, you might want to get that checked out. Although I did pass out one time; turns out aspirin and dehydration don't go well together.”

“So you were already horrible at taking care of yourself at seventeen. That's impressive.”

“Thank you,” Enjolras said, voice flat. “It doesn't happen intentionally, I think. I just... forget.”

“Forget. To eat and sleep?”

“When I'm busy, sometimes.” He shrugged. “I'm not proud of it.”

“I'm literally the last to judge.”

“It helps to live with roommates.”

“Oh, definitely.” Grantaire grinned. “That's why I have a cat. All of the benefits, none of the terrible guilt of having an actual roommate burdening themselves with your issues.”

Enjolras looked unimpressed by the self-deprecation. Grantaire supposed it was an old hat at this point. “All the benefits? Does she write you reminders not to skip breakfast?”

“Does Feuilly write _you_ reminders not to skip breakfast?”

“When I need them.”

“Oh my God.” Grantaire bit down on his lip to keep his smile from becoming flat-out ridiculous. “Thanks for telling me. I will treasure that knowledge.” The edge of the tablecloth was nice to look at. White, boring, a lovely reprieve from Enjolras' eyes. “Seriously, though – it's about responsibility, I guess. You can't let yourself go, you've got a living creature to feed and to take to the vet and everything. Plus, if she's having dinner, you might as well eat, too.”

“Sounds reasonable.”

“It works,” Grantaire agreed. “In a way. I mean, I'm not doing any better than your average millenial stuck with terrible jobs.” He added, after a quick look at Enjolras, “And no worse.”

Enjolras barely ever turned his eyes away, and normally, Grantaire felt pierced by scrutiny because of that. Somewhere along the way, though, that quality had vanished, and Grantaire understood why he felt so strangely about all this: it wasn't because it was an odd imitation of what Grantaire had wanted for too long, it was because he was looking at a version of Enjolras that he previously hadn't thought existed. Like this, relaxed and with any professionalism he kept up even among his friends during meetings left behind, Enjolras was softer and brighter and _charming_. It was dazzling in an entirely different and, frankly annoying, way.

“So!” Grantaire cleared his throat. “Back to that waiting job, then. Was it a rich people thing? Several hundreds of euros for tips each night?” He narrowed his eyes. “Was there a uniform?”

“No to all,” Enjolras said. “Sorry to disappoint. It was an Italian place, they hired me because most customers were tourists and I spoke English. A very standard experience, complete with occasional yelling and unwelcome advances.”

“Ah.” Grantaire could sympathise with fifty per cent of that. “That does sound standard. What a damning indictment.”

“The strangest thing is that, in all ways – physically, mentally, even emotionally sometimes, waiting was the most demanding job I've ever had, and it paid the worst. As if it somehow constitutes a bigger achievement to sit alone in an office and sort through papers all day.” His face soured a little, the frown returning. “The more you think about it, the less sense it makes. Add the pay gap to this, and you'd think people would come up with better excuses for disparities in a system they claim is based on everyone getting what they deserve.”

Grantaire's grin, apparently, threw him off track. “Right,” Enjolras said. “Probably not the best topic of conversation.”

“Hey,” Grantaire held up his hands, “I didn't say anything. Tear down the system during dinner any day; cool with me.” He was still smiling, though, and found it really difficult not to. “'No politics at the dinner table' must have been said a lot in the Enjolras household.”

“Ever since I was twelve, I think.”

“See, that's intense. Talk about nothing but politics all night for all I care, it sounds like the perfect means of personal liberation.”

“Not the perfect means of keeping peace between us, though.” Enjolras had sobered. “The last thing we need is to get kicked out of here because we started arguing about views on international trading agreements.”

“You know, I'd be wounded if I didn't know you have every reason to believe I can't behave. At least trust in my opinion that the prospect of food is too important to me to get us kicked out.”

As if on cue, Enjolras' eyes strayed as the waitress approached with their drinks and menus. Grantaire was almost glad for the interruption; it gave them both something different to focus on and shifted the mood noticeably. Since the menu was in German and they were both lacking food-related vocabulary, picking a meal was mostly restricted to trying to find French terms or the occasional German word they knew.

“This is like the Russian roulette of food,” Grantaire muttered, scanning what he was reasonably sure was the page with main courses. “I'm terrified.”

Enjolras looked up from his own menu. “What's your equivalent of a loaded chamber here?”

“Hm.” Grantaire gave that some thought. “Anything pickled. Other than that, it'd be hard to really put me off for good.”

“Oh,” Enjolras said softly, his eyes back on the card. “How terrible, do you think, would the confirmation of a stereotype be if I ordered tarte flambée?”

“Not that bad.” Enjolras looked so happy to have found something that Grantaire felt, for once, forced to let an ideal opportunity to be an asshole slip through his fingers. “I mean, there are way more stereotypical parts of France than Alsace. Turn back time by a century or ten, and it's not French at all.” Grantaire grinned, and okay, maybe he wasn't _that_ good a person. “Which would bring us back to politics. Have we discussed Napoleon?”

Enjolras kicked him under the table.

Later, when their food came, Grantaire realised that tarte flambée hadn't simply been the first thing on the menu the name of which Enjolras recognised, but that Enjolras genuinely loved tarte flambée. His eyes lit up when the waitress set his plate down, he thanked her sincerely and Grantaire knew, somehow, that he was witnessing something very rare.

“I don't think I've ever seen you excited about food,” Grantaire said, completely ignoring his pasta. “And I mean, ever.”

“You've barely ever seen me eating anything other than cereal bars and pastries to go with coffee,” Enjolras retorted. Then, after some silence, “My mother's from Strasbourg.”

“Oh.” Grantaire frowned. “I didn't know that. And you thought you had to worry about me being rude about the food, when yours has to compete with mum's recipe? Talk about hypocrisy.”

“I didn't genuinely think you'd be rude to the staff; you aren't that kind of person.” Enjolras still hadn't eaten a bite, and Grantaire was starting to feel sorry for him. “Did you know your pasta had pickled olives when you ordered?”

“ _What_?”

Enjolras pointed a fork at some of the pieces of shredded olives on Grantaire's plate, and then watched his horrified expression, obviously biting back a smile. “You can give them to me, I don't mind. They'll go well with this, actually.”

One by one, pieces of olive wandered from Grantaire's dish to Enjolras', and the act was so ridiculous and unnecessary that with anyone else, Grantaire might have considered it less a food-related transaction and more a stumbling attempt at flirting. It didn't help that Enjolras seemed to feel completely at ease for the first time in weeks, and it made sense for him to, his semester was over, they were so close to home and their last stop would be completely for leisure, they had a lovely room they didn't pay for. All of that was reason to celebrate. All of that had nothing to do with Grantaire. That was the thing he kept reminding himself of as they talked; this was good, but it wasn't personal. It wasn't supposed to be.

“You don't know this,” Enjolras said when their plates had already been taken away and they'd ordered a dessert just for the sake of having a reason to stay a little longer, both of them unwilling to interrupt their discussion on the most fitting unlikely careers for their friends, “but Bahorel had already done two internships with youth shelters before we even met him. He mentioned that to me as if it was just a given when we were discussing fundraising one time, and I'm not saying he's going to drop his degree to apply for training as a social worker tomorrow, but we all know law isn't happening, and the only reason he hasn't quit that yet is because the prospect of a standard nine to five job is even worse.”

“You've thought about this a lot,” Grantaire said, still critical. “He doesn't want to get up at seven in the morning now; he wouldn't do it for his dream job. Bahorel will literally die as a student, and I'm not even saying that because he's likely to die young. Although he is.”

“I think about everyone,” Enjolras said off-handedly. “And for Jehan, I'd still argue for tea shop owner. Translating may pay well, but he's said before that it lacks heart. Sooner or later, that other side will win over.”

Grantaire was going to argue with that, because he had plenty to say, but it vanished when he looked at Enjolras, who'd talked himself into the same kind of heated state while talking about his friends that was normally reserved for ideals and opinions. Something in that, in feeling so strongly about others that it threatened to bubble over in strange ways, was achingly familiar to Grantaire. “Do you ever have one of those moments,” he said, “where you kind of – you look at all those people, or maybe just one of them, and you sort of scare yourself because you know you'd do pretty much anything for them? And it's terrifying, but you don't really mind?”

If the frankness startled Enjolras, he didn't let it show. He lowered his eyes, smiling, and nodded. “It doesn't scare me,” he said. “It's overwhelming, but not frightening. I love them. That's a strength.”

A tight feeling in his throat, and Grantaire realised that this meant him, too. In the moments where Enjolras did express outright how much he valued his friends – and those were rare, because there wasn't a point most of the time in stating what everyone already knew – Grantaire tended to exclude himself from that particular kind of declaration by default. He'd never felt rejected, but there was still a broad range between acceptance and appreciation.

“Tell me,” Grantaire asked. It came out softly, not really a demand. “Just about one of them.”

“Hm.” Enjolras bit his lower lip as he thought. He didn't take the task lightly. “All right,” he said after at least a full minute. “The last time we played one of Feuilly's pen-and-paper things. Thursday night; it took us about seven hours to get through the game?”

“Like I could forget.” Grantaire couldn't help but smile; games written by Feuilly were legendary among their group. Every year or so, he'd come out with a new one, and every year or so, they'd have a night of lifelong friendships being almost wrecked and personal bonds being put to the test while Feuilly, as game master, stoically watched his friends dance. It was... something. “The one with the Cold War setting, right?”

“Do you remember how terrible it got towards the ending? Courfeyrac was crying, Jehan was almost at Combeferre's throat –”

“Bahorel and Éponine obviously knew something the rest of us didn't and it was pissing everyone off, I think all Marius wanted was to go home...”

Enjolras nodded, smiling. “Feuilly burnt through the rest far too quickly just to keep things from escalating. And I remember exactly how everything simmered down because we were all so tired, but we weren't technically done with the game, because there was this last task, and Joly took it, only no one was really paying attention anymore and was starting to get ready to leave except for Joly who refused to leave without having solved the task –”

“Oh, God, that code thing he couldn't crack.” Grantaire did remember this in detail; Joly had lamented his failure as a decoding enthusiast for months afterwards. “That's – that's a good moment to choose.”

“Everything was so tense, and everyone was wrecked, we all wanted to go home.” Enjolras was smiling, now, his eyes distant. “Then Bossuet pointed out that Joly wasn't leaving without the code, and every single person in the room pulled themselves together and crowded around him and tried to be helpful while half-asleep.” He shook his head. “It was so terrible. It made everything worse. I think it was because I was overtired myself, but I looked at them all agonising over this tiny question because Joly couldn't find his peace of mind without having answered it, and –” He shook his head, helpless. “I felt really lucky.”

“I remember that.” Grantaire's voice was almost a whisper now. “Feuilly ended up handing the solution to us. He knew it was hopeless.”

“But not for a lack of trying.” Enjolras looked back up at him. His eyes were still soft with fondness that Grantaire felt slightly unworthy of. “Tell me one of yours.”

“Oh, easy.” This was more comfortable terrain. “One year ago, the night we went to see Éponine's first performance as a lead, the café with the sixties music afterwards, Combeferre and Cosette spontaneously slow-dancing between the tables. The two kindest souls on the planet waltzing to _Hey Jude_ , that was the most disgustingly heartwarming thing I've ever seen. I couldn't decide whether to throw up or dedicate a sonnet to the moment.”

“I thought you weren't well that night,” Enjolras said, and okay, that was a little unexpected. “You left not too long afterwards.”

Grantaire only just managed to keep the words in: it wasn't fair to say them out loud, not with them having arrived at the place they were in now but still, they were glaringly bright at the front of his mind. _I didn't think you'd noticed that_. Was he ever going to stop finding out about ways in which he hadn't been doing Enjolras justice? “I wasn't in a great place,” he admitted with a shrug, “but it wasn't, like, terrible. Not bad enough to overshadow everything else.”

“Hm.” Enjolras nodded slowly. “There's footage of that dance, I think. Musichetta filmed it.”

“I'll have to ask her,” Grantaire said. “Although that kind of memory doesn't capture very well, I think it's a magic of the moment type of thing. Cameras are nice, but they produce pale imitations, in the end.”

“Look who's quick to put his own medium down again,” Enjolras said drily. “You know, polaroids become physical very close to the moment in time where you've captured them. Surely, you of all people can see there's at least some emotional value in that.”

Grantaire, who'd been used to being disarmed by Enjolras in every way imaginable for far too long, had nothing to say in response.

When they came outside after having shared a tiramisu and paid the bill, it was dark and the air had cooled, but not considerably. The night was going to be warm, the kind where crickets refused to quiet down and everything but the sky pretended the day still hadn't ended. Grantaire pointed this out as they walked to the car, and then had a thought that let him fall silent as they buckled up. Enjolras was watching him.

“Everything all right?”

“Nineteen degrees.” Grantaire gave a nod towards the temperature display on the dashboard. “Meaning, the wind wouldn't kill us if we drove with the top down.”

Enjolras closed his eyes as if he'd been dreading this request for four days. They were in a convertible, Grantaire had been wistfully aware of that fact since day one, and the back seats were packed too high with their luggage and it wasn't the best idea when you were going 120 an hour, but...

“Fine,” Enjolras said. “Just – go slow when there's a bend. We're not picking our bags off a street somewhere in Germany at midnight.”

Grantaire grinned. “Cross my heart.”

Keeping his eyes on the road and nowhere else had never been such a struggle. He drove, letting himself enjoy at least the feeling of wind tugging at his hair, and forcing himself with what little discipline he had not to stare up, because the sky was clear, he knew it was, and there was no roof to hide the view of the stars. Once, he glanced over to Enjolras who had pulled his hair into a knot that had almost unravelled again by now, strands whipping about his head, but whose lips had parted as he tilted his head back to watch the sky as they drove.

As soon as they'd made it back to the room, reality began to trickle back in, and with it came the culmination of everything Grantaire had pushed down during the day. There was too much on his mind at once, too much that refused to quiet down, and normally he'd postpone the inevitable tiny anxiety attack by playing something completely mind-numbing on his phone or by complaining to Joly via text, none of which was currently an option. Enjolras disappeared in the bathroom for a shower, and Grantaire slipped out to find the main house.

He drummed his fingers against the desk as he listened to the dial tone, impatient. “Come on,” he whispered, “pick up, you're allowed to hate me, just please pick up.”

It was a little past midnight, and Musichetta worked a demanding job, and she'd start at 7:30am sharp tomorrow, and she picked up. Grantaire had never deserved and would never deserve her friendship.

“Yes?”

“That's how you answer a call from an unknown German number? Really?”

“Seemed wiser than saying my name,” she said, sleep thick in her voice. “I'd assume this is an emergency, but knowing you...”

“You're mad at me,” he remembered at the worst possible time. Even worse, she had _reason_ to be. “Shit, that's not why I called. Do you mind if we only take, like, half a minute to sort that out and then we talk about my other thing?”

“Okay,” she said, because the heavens sent her. “Did you throw away a real career opportunity because you can't say no to Enjolras?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“I'm trying to make amends,” he said, wondering if that, from her perspective, was any better. “Do you forgive me?”

A sigh. It sounded eerie through the phone. “It's your life, R.” Silence, then, “Of course I forgive you.”

“Oh, thank fuck. I was starting to worry I'd get home and then immediately exiled.”

“Maybe I shouldn't have been involved in the first place,” she said. Profound realisations shared across two countries at almost midnight – that was the stuff cheesy phone company commercials were made of. “You have a fair shot without me. You certainly have one without Gros.”

“Careful,” Grantaire smiled weakly. “Don't get yourself fired.”

“Hah, as if.” She sounded a little more awake now. “What's wrong, R? Is it bad?”

“Probably not,” he said, and tried to sort through his own thoughts that had, somehow, let him arrive at the conclusion that he should call her from a monastery's landline in the middle of the night. Musichetta had known him before the others had, Musichetta had known Enjolras from nothing but Grantaire's tangents before she'd met him in person, and Musichetta had smacked sense into him whenever his imagination had run away with him in the past. He had no idea what he needed, just that out of all people he knew, she was most likely to understand. “Not – in that way, at least not really. Travelling just sort of tends to push people together weirdly, so I'm sort of on edge, and it's –” He breathed. “It's not good.”

“Okay.” She was silent for a moment, then, “Enjolras, then?”

He laughed, breathless. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah, you could say that.”

“Is he being an asshole?” She paused and then added, for the sake of fairness, “Are you being an asshole?”

“Weirdly,” Grantaire muttered, “I feel as if the problem is that neither of us are currently behaving like assholes. Chetta, I'm – ” He almost laughed again, oh, this was a disaster, wasn't it, calling a poor friend at night because he couldn't deal with an unrequited crush he'd been nursing for literal years, this was bordering on pathetic. “Fuck, I shouldn't have called you.”

“Stop,” Musichetta said, with no softness at all. “I'm already awake, so save the fake regret for, I don't know, never. Are you two fighting?”

The _If only_ on the tip of his tongue almost slipped out. At least that, he knew how to deal with. “No.”

“So you're getting along?”

“Yes.”

A pause. He could see her before his inner eye, still half asleep and face-palming. “R,” she said after finally, “you're free to consider me a bad person for saying this, but if you're anxious because the two of you are getting along fine and that's sort of unprecedented, that sounds to me like a typical case of you wanting to deny yourself a nice thing. And, full offence, at this point that's unnecessary and annoying.”

“I know,” Grantaire said flatly. He really did. “If it's happening, I'm not, like, choosing to do it. It's just my brain going into overdrive, like it does, and I was doing okay until now, but I can't – I don't know how to – ”

“You're overthinking,” Musichetta said. “I don't have a way to stop it. Once the world comes up with an actual solution for that, the entire health and lifestyle industry is going to collapse.”

“And wouldn't they deserve it,” Grantaire murmured. “I'm sorry for the nightly ambush, Chetta. You can kick my ass for that when I get home, I won't even try to defend myself.”

Musichetta sighed, which reached Grantaire through the landline as a tinny crinkling noise. “While we're being really candid; I haven't been able to be mad at you for longer than ten minutes ever since you brought the best two people I know into my life, so. Unless you literally murder someone, we'll be even for a long time to come.”

Grantaire smiled and was astonished at that as soon as it happened. He thought of what would happen once he hung up, and swallowed. “He was a waiter, did you know?”

“Huh?”

“Enjolras. He told me, he – ” Something was rising in his chest, and in its place, the buzzing in his head had begun to slowly recede. God, he was tired. “You know, you'd think unlearning a ton of stuff about the guy you've been infatuated with for too long would make you like him less. Fuck whoever came up with that idea. It's bullshit.”

Musichetta was quiet for a moment. “You know, R,” she said, slightly hesitant, now that was uncharacteristic, “there was a possibility – I mean, to me, personally, I thought there was a real chance it would help if you were closer to him, in case – I don't know. It's always different liking someone from a distance, and I was never sure if...”

“Yeah, don't finish that.” It was the last thing he needed to hear – not that he was offended, at least not on his own behalf. He had a habit of being slightly dramatic in his admiration, he didn't blame anyone for thinking it was superficial. He _did_ take issue with the implication that Enjolras needed to be idolised in order to be adored, but neither Musichetta or him were in a constitution to hash that out right now. “The monks are paying for this call and we're leeching off their goodwill already, I'm so fucking sorry for keeping you up. Any time you need literally anything I can provide, seriously, just...”

“I know,” she said quickly. “Will you be okay if I hang up now?”

“As okay as I get. Thanks, Chetta.”

“Any time,” she said, and, after another second of silence, hung up.

 

Enjolras was standing next to the desk when Grantaire came back, one hand on the edge of the scrapbook and the other scrubbing a towel through half-dried hair. Grantaire didn't miss the way he was surveyed when he walked in. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” Grantaire said with a half-hearted grin. “Just had a friend to piss off. We better lose all our money in that shop tomorrow, or I might go to hell for leaving them with a phone bill like that.”

Enjolras wasn't convinced and it was obvious, but he also seemed too tired to insist. “We should get up early,” he said, throwing the towel over the back of the chair. “Breakfast is over at ten, and the earlier we arrive, the more time we'll have in Liège.”

“Hm, sure.”

“Good.” Enjolras sat down on his bed and reached for the alarm clock on the bedside table. “Seven too early?”

“Nah, I'll manage.” There was an ugly cracking sound when Grantaire stretched, arching his back, and he pulled a face in reaction to it. His shoulders were stiff and there had been a lasting tension at the base of his neck ever since this morning when they'd spent almost an entire ferry ride crammed into the car.

“Was that your back?” Enjolras was watching him from his bed.

“My neck, I think. Guess I'm getting old,” Granaire said. He shrugged, apologetic. “I don't even care about the thirty degrees; I'm going to take the longest hot bath when we get home.”

“You can't shift around as much as I can while driving,” Enjolras said, apparently aware of this for the first time. “That must get uncomfortable; I didn't even think –”

“Sounds way worse than it feels,” Grantaire said, because Enjolras was too skilled for his own good at finding injustice where it didn't exist. “No worries. Hey, I'm not the one whose blood has been literally spilled on this trip.”

Enjolras said nothing in return, so Grantaire considered the topic dealt with and looked at him questioningly with his fingers hovering over the light switch. Enjolras nodded absent-mindedly, his eyes narrowed as if he was considering something.

The softer light from Enjolras' bedside lamp helped Grantaire find his way to the bathroom. He changed and brushed his teeth, all while mechanically repeating his new mantra in his head; _Don't think, don't think, don't think_. Musichetta was right: too much thinking was what was causing him pain, and he needed to shut it off if he wanted to have anything resembling peace for the rest of the trip. Whenever he thought, he hurt himself, one way or another. Whenever he thought, all this felt unreal, more like a dream than an inexplicably good reality, and he was tired of not living it.

Back in the room, he dropped down on his mattress unceremoniously, dead tired all of a sudden, and even more eager to sleep because it would make tomorrow arrive more quickly. One last day of vacation; one last day of vacation that Enjolras had _asked_ for.

“Grantaire?”

Grantaire blinked. “Hm?”

Enjolras moved on the bed, sheets rustling. “Sit up.”

Grantaire did, on instinct, but reason caught up with him when he'd pushed himself up on his elbows. “Um. What's happening?”

Enjolras was kneeling at the edge of his mattress, where the ends of their bed frames touched. “I want to help,” he said plainly. “Turn around, your back to me. If – that's all right with you, obviously.”

“If what is all right with me?”

Enjolras' eyebrows pulled together, as if Grantaire was the one that wasn't making any sense. He raised both hands. “I used to help Combeferre out with tension in his shoulders all the time; if you don't mind, I'll try it on you.”

“You're –” Grantaire, still not completely sitting up, tried helplessly not to gape. “Are you asking to give me a massage?”

“You patched up my feet,” Enjolras said with a light shrug. He refused to break eye contact. “I can't promise it'll help,” he added more carefully, “but it's worth a try.”

Grantaire had no response. Enjolras was looking at him, unwavering, and Grantaire would never find a good way to react to being looked at like this, at least not as long as screaming into a pillow was generally not considered a socially acceptable reaction.

He pushed himself up the rest of the way to sit cross-legged, turning away from Enjolras in the same motion. If anything, he had tensed up even more in the past ten seconds. He sat facing the floor-to-ceiling window at the end of his bed and stared straight out at the lights of the town instead of Enjolras' vague, shadowed reflection in the glass. _Don't think_.

He closed his eyes and listened to the soft rustle of sheets, the hum of the bedside lamp, the quiet rush of wind outside. “Okay.”

Again, the sound of Enjolras moving behind him, then silence, and then, reaching through the nervous thrum of energy that vibrated under his skin and that he was sure Enjolras must feel, the warm touch of hands on his shoulders.

“Tell me if anything hurts,” Enjolras said quietly, his thumbs digging in just above Grantaire's shoulder blades. “Muscle cramps are complex, I don't want to make it worse.”

Enjolras' hands worked their way up slowly, from the upper part of his back where they'd rubbed in circles, knuckles pressing firmly along the line of his spine, up to the base of his neck. There, they curled over the space between Grantaire's neck and shoulders with the slightest pressure that built as he moved his fingers in a slow push and pull, rubbing warmth into rigid strands of muscles. He knew what he was doing, clearly, but the closeness of him was too engaging to dwell on anything else. He was close enough for Grantaire to feel the rhythm of his breath, close enough for the heat that emanated from both of them to mingle. The awareness of it was dizzying, and Grantaire closed his eyes against it, hardly daring to breathe.

The worst thing was that it really helped, that while the tension in his neck unravelled with every careful press of Enjolras' fingers, something warm and familiar unfurled in his chest, pushing and pushing until it felt almost unbearable. Enjolras shifted, and his breath brushed Grantaire's neck.

He was still closer now, although Grantaire wasn't sure how he knew it. He could feel that if he leaned back just slightly, his back would rest against Enjolras' chest, that there were only slivers of air between them, a tiny, warm space that was impossible to breach. Enjolras had pushed himself up so he could reach Grantaire's neck more steadily, Grantaire realised, fingers now pressing gently against his nape. For a moment, they wound into Grantaire's curls as they reached his hairline, and then drew back, as if startled by the intimacy.

There was a gap, then, that they both knew either of them should have filled by saying something, by moving or even just by taking a breath that cut through the silence. Grantaire, his eyes closed, pushed down on the quiet longing at his core. It took some focus, ignoring the warm, buzzing feeling of every vein and sinew in his body singing with want for someone so close.

The stasis ended, and Enjolras' hands wrapped around his shoulders again and squeezed slightly, almost an apology, before he pulled them away. He spoke in a soft, even voice. “Better?”

“Better – yeah, uh, it is,” said Grantaire. He was nowhere as good at this as Enjolras; his own words came out hoarse and rushed. With him forbidding his mind from questioning it, it was up to the rest of him to deal with the absurdity of what had just happened, to his dried-up throat and racing heart. Not, as he realised now, an ideal solution. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Enjolras said, which had some finality, but he wasn't moving away or pulling back, as he should. Grantaire sat just as immoveable, refusing to budge before Enjolras did, until finally, there was a light brush of air and a soft creaking noise and Enjolras had moved to lie down.

Protected by the half-dark, Grantaire curled up on his side and waited. Sleep was a distant thing now, even though the loose feeling in his shoulders and the residual warmth of touch should have easily been enough to lull him in. Instead, he lay awake until Enjolras shut off his bedside lamp, and long afterwards. He counted his own breaths; he listened to Enjolras breathe not far from him.

He was never going to think again.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things:  
> 1\. Was it necessary to sort through emotions for 7 whole chapters before UST could even begin to be a thing? Nah. Is that just how I roll? Unfortunately. Thanks for your patience, everyone. ♥  
> 2\. I had a teacher, once, who told us it had taken him 8 years to write his PhD thesis because he was working on it steadily, but at a pace that was basically just a sentence or two every day. Back then, I didn't get it, but I kind of do now. Again, thanks for your patience.  
> 3\. Feuilly + games was the first Les Mis headcanon I ever had - there's just something about his introductory paragraph that makes you go, wow, the guy probably slays at Risk. Add to that his creative streak, a good mind for strategy and a deep sense of integrity, I don't know, it writes itself.  
> 4\. The only acceptable song choices for when you're in an open convertible on a starry night in June is either [this from Courf's Germany Playlist](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mMdNOiplpEc), or Queen's Who Wants to Live Forever (or maybe there's more. I'm not the boss of anyone).  
> 5\. I'm going to have to come back and add the scrapbook pages later, but for anyone who likes to have a visual to go with stuff, there's a tour of the House of Silence [on Youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8uNGlwFNhvI) for some reason?  
> 6\. Thank you for reading. :)


	8. Meschede - Liège

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Enjolras phones home and Paris isn't the only francophone city to house a merry band of activists.

Enjolras hadn't slept much. It was becoming something of a pattern.

The day was going to be a long one, he knew as much the second he woke up. Being conscious was all it took for him to realise that he felt too warm, his skin too tight, and his thoughts hazy and unfocused. He'd seen this coming yesterday, when he'd been bone-tired and unable to fall asleep, his mind too busy circling around the startling realisation that somewhere along the line, he had fallen for Grantaire.

Enjolras knew he didn't fall hard and fast. He never had. Perhaps if he did, it might be easier to deal with, something to be expected. What was new about this was that it didn't feel like something new at all: it was pieces slotting into place, stepping away from a mosaic to see the whole image and wondering you could not have _realised_ before.

He'd woken up with the alarm, and Grantaire must have gotten up earlier on purpose. The soft hum of the shower running was maddening, cruelly evoking a whole mass of things Enjolras tried vehemently not to think about.

He was two pages into the code of conduct for the local monks – at least that was what he was fairly certain the book contained, although it was hard to judge with limited vocabulary – when Grantaire came back inside. Enjolras glanced up, briefly regretted it, and turned his eyes back to the pages.

“Morning.” Grantaire tossed his towel over the back of the office chair, as if there was any chance of it drying before they left. “Did I wake you earlier? I tried to be quiet, I know every minute of sleep is precious.”

“No, I was asleep until just now. Do you want to pack before or after breakfast? I was just going to get dressed, so we could go directly after, or...”

“I'll just start packing while you get ready, and leave the rest for when we get back. I can get your stuff, too, if you –”

“No, I won't take long.”

Grantaire's eyes followed Enjolras as he got up and set the book aside.

“Considering alternative career options?”

“Hm?”

Grantaire nodded to the book.

“Oh.” Did he know German? Yesterday hadn't seemed like it. What foreign languages did he know, anyway? If you pressed Enjolras on it, he'd only be able to vouch for English. “Well, I'm not sure my information on the lifestyle is comprehensive enough to make that kind of choice. And I'm not confident I'm up to their standards as far as abnegation of all worldly concerns goes.”

Grantaire grinned. “Well, from what I know about you, you're halfway there already.”

 

There was a hot day ahead, so Enjolras' shower was cold. He could use the shock to his system, too, if only to drive any lingering thoughts of last night away, of how he'd traced the hard lines of Grantaire's shoulders with his fingers and played him like an instrument, listening to how his breath caught or feeling how his muscles relaxed under Enjolras' touch. In retrospect, Enjolras couldn't divine why he'd offered it: his normal approach to any kind of attraction was to ignore it if it was inconvenient, and that was really all the strategy he had, because it was always inconvenient. Part of him recognised that he'd been ignoring it this time as well, for such a long time and so well that he hadn't even realised he was doing it. Something about last night had shaken the dam loose, and he'd been too blindsided to hold it up.

The rest of him insisted that it didn't matter. Cold water and at least a few hours of sleep: today, he was thinking clearly. He repeated this in his mind as he dried off and slipped into clean clothes, as he folded up their towels back in their room, listening to Grantaire mutter on about his new theory that mass wine had only been invented so that monks could have alcohol without a guilt problem, and as they walked down for breakfast together.

Tomorrow. He could deal with this tomorrow.

“Was there anything in Liège you wanted to do in particular?” Grantaire looked up from his coffee, questioning. “We should probably start thinking about logistics.”

“Well.” Enjolras was thankful – this, at least, he'd thought about. “I thought – if you're okay with that, obviously – we could find a hotel off city limits first, they're cheaper there, and leave the car?”

“Sure.” Grantaire nodded over his bowl of what looked like unusually thick yoghurt and muesli. Enjolras, munching on toast with jam, didn't know where to look. Nothing felt natural. “So we're definitely staying overnight?”

“I thought we might as well.” Enjolras bit his lip, hesitant. “Unless you'd rather be home by tonight, which I'd really understand –”

Grantaire made a short, discontented noise. “No, not at all. I do want to see Liège, we'll just take the cheapest hotel they have. I need to pay for something terrible after this whole...” He gestured vaguely, at their free breakfast and the large windows of the refectory. “Just, uh. Planning ahead. The apartment, the cat, you know how it is.”

Enjolras really didn't – his place would be perfectly taken care of and there were no pets to worry about – but the comment made him finish his breakfast quickly and excuse himself anyway.

For the first time on the entire trip, they had definite information about when they'd be home, and a lot would have to go wrong for them not to make it. Enjolras paced back and forth between apple trees on the orchard, where he'd found reception was best. Collecting his phone from the locker room had almost felt like a betrayal; after all, they weren't leaving yet, but calling France from the monks' landline was undoubtedly worse. Grantaire was remarkable in his lack of decorum.

“Hi.” Feuilly sounded surprised. Enjolras swallowed hard as the realisation how long he hadn't seen him hit him with full force – he heard his voice, and something lodged in his throat.

“Hey, is this a bad time?”

“Not at all, I'm just – well, I'm not really doing anything. You've accidentally pinned me down on my only lazy morning this week, congratulations.”

“Oh.” Enjolras frowned. “I'd understand if you'd rather have that for yourself.”

“No, come on. It's really good to hear from you.”

“I haven't been great at keeping in touch,” Enjolras admitted, slightly ashamed of himself now that he considered it. He'd talked to Courfeyrac regularly in the past few months, if mostly for organisational things, but he'd only ever texted Feuilly and even then barely asked how he was doing. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologise, please.” Enjolras was half sure he could hear him roll his eyes. “Combeferre said you were in Germany? Crossing the border any time soon?”

“That's why I'm calling.” It was, at least, a considerable percentage of the reason. “We'll be back tomorrow, probably around noon. I figured you deserved an early warning, just in case...”

“...I needed time to clean up from all the wild nights this apartment saw in your absence, yeah, sure. Thanks for calling ahead.”

“You said you might have house guests.”

“Sorry, just teasing. I did have guests until yesterday, some people from the international student association were over because their housing didn't check out. We were a four people household for a little while, but it worked surprisingly well. One of them said she might come by an ABC meeting next week, actually.”

“Oh, that's great.” He meant it, but for that to come through, he would have needed more than four hours of sleep. “How's everything? Courfeyrac kept me updated, but it was mostly stats.”

“Everything's fine, Enjolras.” Amusement had crept into Feuilly's voice, sly and quiet. “I mean. You're sorely missed for recruitment, but nothing's fallen apart. Don't worry. In fact, don't come back on account of the ABC, if that was your reason. Take another week or so off and tour Belgium. Eat fries. Go see the Atomium.”

“Hilarious.”

Feuilly snickered. Something warm spread in Enjolras' chest; a feeling of belonging, the silent promise that home was still home. It offered a reassurance he hadn't known he needed.

“You know, everyone's speculating on how Grantaire got you to stretch out the trip into at least a quasi-vacation. Consider that my early warning to you, they'll be expecting answers.”

“They won't get any,” Enjolras said, surprised by himself. “I mean. There's nothing to say. The others were the ones who insisted we have an adventure; Grantaire and I were – we didn't do anything they weren't already expecting us to do.”

“Hey, I stay out of that particular wasp's nest.” He didn't even sound defensive, and he had no reason to. There was no one less interested in the pettier parts of their group discussions than Feuilly, who, if anything, found them morbidly entertaining. “Give observations and inform accordingly is all I can do.”

“Is –” Enjolras stopped, suddenly aware of everything at once. He'd be home soon. Months away, and he was going to be home tomorrow. The day after tomorrow, he'd wake in his own bed in the morning, and he'd probably trip over someone's bag in the hallway, and Feuilly's doodles would be on the fridge. He'd see the others again, it would be a Friday, most of them would be going out. Enjolras breathed in deeply. “Tell me everything at home's still the same.”

The line was silent for a moment before Feuilly said, much softer than before, “It is.” Then, almost abashed, “Actually not everything, because Jehan cut his hair? Sorry. It, uhm. It looks good. He wears it open now.”

Enjolras had no immediate response to that. Jehan's braids had been his trademark, he even said so rather frequently. _I'm Jehan, and these are my braids. They're licensed_. In all its forms, Enjolras welcomed and encouraged change. He reminded himself of this firmly.

Feuilly, on the other end, cleared his throat. “He said it felt liberating.”

“I won't recognise him.”

“I think you will.”

“Is this a strange conversation?”

“Oh, definitely.”

With Feuilly, strange conversations were always easier than with most. Out of nowhere, an image crossed his mind, a sudden thought of Feuilly and Grantaire, exploring another country and sharing a car for three months, two people who were so utterly indifferent to the world's conventions and restrictions. Compared to that, he felt strangely inadequate.

“Enjolras?” Feuilly had accepted a good ten seconds of silence without breaking it. There weren't enough people with that kind of patience in the world. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Enjolras refrained from slapping himself. _Get a grip_. “Yes, sorry, I'm not completely awake yet.”

“Right.” Feuilly paused. “Listen, whatever it is, just... hang in there, okay? You'll be home soon, and then I'll demand you sleep for ten days, and everything's gonna be back to normal. Sound good?”

Enjolras tipped his head back and blinked at the sun, just so he could blame it for the sting in his eyes. He'd done an at least sort of acceptable job of keeping it together so far, and now, here he was, standing under an apple tree and missing his own room, almost crying on the phone like a homesick child. “Really good,” he said. “Impractical, but still a great suggestion.”

“You know me,” Feuilly said dryly. “Anyway, it's good to now you're coming back. I'll make sure your room looks nice. Full offence; you didn't leave it in the best of states.”

Enjolras smiled. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see you then. Take care.”

 

Grantaire was waiting by the entrance, all their things packed and stacked up neatly next to him. “Thought I'd save you another trip to the room.” He picked up his own bag with one hand and handed Enjolras his with the other. “Unless you wanted a moment to, like, meditate on the experience or something, we can take these to the car.”

Enjolras hesitated for a moment, trying to resist the impulse to go and check if Grantaire had overlooked anything. He decided, after a second, that the last thing they needed was to dig up that particular hatchet. “No, it's fine. Thank you for packing.”

“Hah.” The look Grantaire gave him craved a response, but Enjolras walked ahead of him, quiet and determined to remain that way.

They kept their promise of stopping by the shop, which was larger than either of them had assumed, and with a glance at the prices, Enjolras noted that this was definitely more than he'd usually spend on a jar of honey or a bookstand.

“Hey.” Grantaire nudged his side and picked a small bottle off a shelf. “This one for Bahorel.”

Enjolras squinted. “Is that liqueur?”

“Plum and vanilla flavoured, organic.” Grantaire pushed the bottle into Enjolras' hand; Enjolras reminded himself just in time not to pull back and drop it. “Sounds gross; he's going to hate it.”

“Which makes it an ideal gift. Sure, why didn't I think of that?”

“Find something better in here for Bahorel, a punch-throwing, Proudhon-reading hedonist with a distaste for higher institutions, and I'll take it all back.” Grantaire smiled when Enjolras rolled his eyes, and by the same principle, they gathered most of the remaining gifts.

 

“You know, you should think about doing this massage stuff for money,” Grantaire said later, moving slightly in his seat as they drove down from the monastery. “I feel like a new man. Nothing hurts, I didn't even remember what that felt like.”

“It's not exactly an art.” _I was hoping you wouldn't bring that up_ was best left unsaid, Enjolras decided. “I mean, for genuine conditions, sure, that would take some expertise to fix. But simple muscle tension isn't difficult to get rid of. I used to help people in the dorm with that all the time; they were a lot more impressed than they should have been, too.”

“Look at you, uncomfortable at the slightest whiff of fame. Classic Enjolras.” Grantaire glanced at him. “Although I'm a little hurt here. Just one more set of shoulders in a long line of people who came before me, that's tough.”

Enjolras had no idea why he let himself, but he took the bait. “Thought you were special?”

“Certainly hoped so.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He didn't mean to add anything to that response. It was short. It was concise. It was sufficient. Still, the next thing he said happened. “If that helps at all, most people before you didn't get their massages on a bed, and we normally had the lights on.”

“Most?”

“You can't think I give back rubs and tell after this entire very misguided conversation.”

Grantaire clicked his tongue and pointed, a vague gesture of _You got me there_. “Seriously though, thanks. You didn't have to indulge me with the – the driving, and the food, and everything.” Enjolras turned to him slightly, watching the way his fingers, normally so loose and nimble, were wrapped tightly around the steering wheel. He had seemed to be in a good mood all morning, open and cheerful as Enjolras only remembered him from a select few other days. Now, Enjolras wondered how he'd missed the obvious other thing beneath that: the way his eyes darted around, the way he'd talk a little more than usual, tripping over his words as if he couldn't catch up with himself. “Yesterday was – kind of nice, wasn't it?”

“Yes.” Enjolras kept his eyes on Grantaire. “One of the best nights I've had in a while. I wouldn't still think going to Liège would be a good idea if it hadn't been.”

Grantaire laughed. Enjolras was almost satisfied with how genuine it looked. “Oh man,” Grantaire said, shaking his head, “this city better be worth it.”

 

The further they left the morning behind, the less certain Enjolras became that making any stop at all could be worth it. By noon, the heat was already sweltering. Enjolras didn't relish the thought of touring a city centre in thirty-five degrees, but he owed Grantaire at least this one chance to soak up the sun after he'd practically kept him trapped inside a tiny car for almost a week. He thought of Grantaire on the bow of the ferry, happier than he'd been for the rest of the trip, perhaps with the exception of last night, and wondered, suddenly, if they were on the way to something beautiful or disastrous.

Shortly after crossing the Belgian border, they pulled over, as Grantaire claimed they needed “sustenance for both the car and me.” Enjolras had volunteered to find them snacks and, on a whim, came back to the car with a double box of tiramisu ice cream cups with plastic spoons.

“I thought you didn't like coffee.”

Enjolras leaned against the hood of the car. They'd parked in the shade, where the heat was bearable, and Grantaire rested back next to him. “There's a big difference between coffee flavour smothered in ice cream and the actual, concentrated thing. You wouldn't call this coffee, would you? If you were being honest.” He held up his spoon. Grantaire examined his own.

“Probably not. I'm still calling you a hypocrite.”

Enjolras shrugged. “Not to shock you too much, but I do _drink_ coffee, too, I just don't enjoy it. It'd have been hard to get through school without it.”

“Drinking it when you hate it, though? That's some pretty terrifying habits you have there. Grade A self-punishment.”

“You're one to talk.” Grantaire looked up, surprised at his candour, but it hadn't struck Enjolras as a very daring thing to say. Not anymore, at least. “See, you'd be a lot more convincing if you weren't arguing on a basis of _Do as I say, not as I do_. We've been over this, remember? It's a good thing to suggest people they be kinder to themselves, but it's worth a lot less as an argument if you preach it without action. That's actually a better example of hypocrisy than eating tiramisu ice cream even though you don't like coffee.”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes. “Okay, I think subliminally you had a point there that wasn't about persuasion strategy and rhetorics, but I'm not sure what it is.”

“I'll try if you do,” Enjolras said easily. “We're both already sort of trying. I mean, I bought ice cream.”

“A small step for mankind, a giant leap for Enjolras.”

Enjolras looked down at his ice cream cup. There had been trail mix in the shop, too, and some sandwiches that, while still unhealthy, at least had lettuce on them. “It felt like one.”

“Okay, I need to stop butchering famous quotes when I'm not even trying to seem sarcastic, that's a terrible idea anyway.”

“Your argument earlier could have inspired me to have ice cream, say, once a week, if you'd been willing to apply the same conditions to yourself.”

“Enjolras, I have ice cream for breakfast on a terrifyingly regular basis. Don't go down that road.”

“You could stop diving headfirst into every opportunity for a street fight there is,” Enjolras suggested. “You could drink a smoothie once in a while, or try not to openly object the next time someone compliments you.”

Grantaire pulled a face. “I'm pretty sure the effort that would take surpasses your heroic courage in the decision to eat ice cream.”

“You couldn't possibly know that.”

“Neither can you.”

“Exactly. Do we have a deal?”

Slightly helpless, Grantaire laughed. “I think if there's anything we've established by now, it's that we're terrible at sticking to agreements. This is the worst way of going about this.”

“Oh, I don't know. I dislike not holding up my end of a deal, especially if I have something to prove.”

“I wasn't aware of that at all,” Grantaire said, derisive.

“If you think being combative is going to dissuade me, you're wrong.”

“It's impossible that there's a single other person on the planet who can be this terrifying while eating ice cream. Are you really not going to drop this?”

Enjolras scraped the bottom of the plastic cup with his spoon. “Obviously I will, if you say no.”

“Oh.” Grantaire frowned, as if that hadn't crossed his mind yet. “Maybe I'll try the compliment thing.”

“Really?”

“Sure, I mean, I need to shut up more often anyway, might as well start there. No open contradictions from now on, that seems – vaguely doable.”

“Excellent.” Enjolras extended a hand. “I'll drink less coffee. More delicious but unhealthy food optional and aspired to.”

“Sounds fair.” Grantaire shook his hand solemnly. “May this agreement be stronger and more fruitful than the last.”

 

When he'd stayed in Liège as a child, they'd had rooms in the city centre, right by the riverside. Enjolras always thought he'd grown up not to be fussy about accommodations simply by a stroke of luck – his mother claimed it wasn't in his nature, but Enjolras sometimes wondered just how close he'd been to developing unbearable snobbishness with his upbringing.

He didn't, for instance, have any particular feelings at all about the hotel they'd found outside of Liège just off the autoroute until Grantaire, having looked into the bathroom, decidedly closed the door and announced that the room ranked right at the top of the list of the most terrible places he'd ever stayed at. “And the bedroom of my teenage years doubled as our kitchen.”

“It's not that bad,” Enjolras claimed without any real conviction.

Grantaire gave him a blank look. “There's one blanket for two people, it's easily forty degrees in here, the bathroom has one square meter and is made of plastic, there is no clear separation between the shower and the rest of it, and I'll tell you now not to look out that window, because when _I_ did, there was a middle-aged naked guy in the patio.”

“We'll just not spend a lot of time here, then. It's only one night, and I don't need a blanket when it's this warm, anyway.”

“You can sleep without a blanket? Do you lack any and all survival instincts?”

“Name one thing in here that might threaten my survival and could be stopped by a blanket, and I might come around.”

“The malevolent demonic entity that clearly possesses every wall and floorboard in here, for one,” Grantaire grumbled. “Belgian Horror Story: Hotel. I'm pretty sure we're the guys that get killed in the pilot.”

All inconveniences aside, Enjolras couldn't stop himself from being happy they'd come. With its industrial streak, French road signs and scattered historical buildings, Liège was as close to home as anything he'd seen in months, all without throwing him back into the rather brutal reality that he had an internship waiting and a dissertation to plan out, as arriving home tomorrow inevitably would. They took the bus to the city centre, and Enjolras kept track of the route as they drove, committing landmarks and buildings to memory as best as he could. It looked like a completely different city from the one he remembered while some singular details felt hauntingly familiar: a corner café, a sculpture by the roadside, the trees around a bench on the sidewalk. When the conductor announced a stop at Place Saint-Lambert, Enjolras touched Grantaire's arm. “This is us.”

The square was still beautiful, a wide stretch of grey, smooth stone and regularity in a busy city full of mismatched styles and colours. They had gotten off the bus on the side of the square, right in the shade of the facade of an imposing building Enjolras vaguely recalled from his last stay. “Is this a palace?” Grantaire shaded his eyes as he looked up at it, high, embellished walls and flags waving over the entrance. “And are we going to have the whole constitutional monarchy discussion, or nah?”

“I think it used to be a bishop's residence,” Enjolras said. “Which is arguably even worse. I'd rather skip the discussion part, though, I don't think I'm equipped to stay rational enough for civilised discussion in this weather.” He took a picture of the facade anyway, and kept the camera close as they wandered the city, aimless and leisurely.

Enjolras couldn't remember the last time he'd done this, spent time in a place with no other intention than discovering it. He planned things, he had _goals_ , even as a tourist. Grantaire, on the other hand, seemed a professional at sauntering, turning into every inconspicuous alley to look for hidden gems and never writing off a single establishment before trying it, no matter how seedy the outside looked. By the late afternoon, they had tried dolmades at no less than three different Mediterranean places and found several small shops with oddly specific ranges – a record store, for one, with actual records, which was rare enough; so rare, in fact, that they stayed for almost an hour browsing and talking music, and a small hole-in-the-wall used bookstore with an unreasonably large selection of antique maps of the world. There was one shop that focused exclusively on gummy candy, which was lucky, because Courfeyrac, who lived for sour gummy worms, was the one person Enjolras didn't have a gift for yet. Grantaire bought himself blue sharks and answered Enjolras' questioning gaze with a shrug, later claiming that one should never need a reason to buy blue food.

“You know, honestly?” They were walking along the river, which didn't offer half the nice views and distractions the same course would have in Paris, but the lack of attractiveness left more space to talk. Between Grantaire biting the heads off gummy sharks, that was. “I wasn't really sure about this, but it's good to be here. I mean. I didn't, like, doubt your taste in vacation spots, but I didn't think it'd be this – I don't know. Nice.”

“You could have said something.” Enjolras was walking closer to the river, and frowned at the boats anchored by the side of it. It was difficult for him not to scowl at yachts. “If you wanted to be home sooner. I did offer.”

“No, that's not – I'm in no hurry to be home, I just had sort of a hard time believing you were, too.”

“Ah.” Somehow, that didn't make it better. “I don't lie, R.”

“But you compromise. I thought you might have just kind of offered because you didn't mind, but you weren't thrilled about it either. Which I now know is wrong, because I don't think I've seen you enjoy yourself this much when you weren't problem-solving or rally-planning. So... I'm glad.”

“So am I,” Enjolras said after a pause. He hadn't felt quite like himself all day and blamed it on the heat, but he also knew that it was unlike him to consciously put complicated, nagging thoughts out of his head and just let whatever happened happen. What surprised him more than the thing itself was that he didn't feel threatened by it – rather than that, it had felt freeing. “I'd allow you to book that as a victory, bringing me over to the side of people who travel for fun.”

“Oh? You'll do this more often?”

“I might, when I have time.” He never did, but that could change, if it had to. A single day off once in a while wasn't an impossible goal. “We live in France. There's so much to see.”

Grantaire clutched his heart. “Enjolras developing wanderlust. I never thought I'd see the day.”

“What about you?” Enjolras looked him over. He hadn't gotten out his camera again so far, but there was still time. “Is the road trip experience permanently ruined after this?”

“Are you kidding?” Grantaire laughed. “I had some of the highlights of my whole year so far on this. We drove over an ocean. Enjolras, you knelt in a meadow picking flowers. No one at home is even going to believe that, and I got to witness it.” Enjolras only noticed now that he'd slid the paper bag of candy back into his bag and had his hands buried deep in his pockets. He was watching his shoes as he walked. “Seriously, though, it's probably time to get back to real life. Travelling helped, I mean, maybe I needed that at the beginning, but it's – well. I'm not seventeen, the whole thirst for adventure thing stops being feasible after a while. As soon as it becomes a super expensive way of procrastinating, you know it's time to let it go.”

“Hm.” A thought crossed Enjolras' mind, just briefly, and it was a testament to how little he was currently in control of his own words that he said it without second-guessing himself. “I could take you, though, if you wanted to see Soual.”

“What?” Grantaire looked up. “I mean. Sorry, you – how do you mean?”

“Well.” Enjolras, in turn, lowered his eyes. He wasn't good at this; he had never played anything cool in his entire life. “I know you haven't been back to the South, and all the others have been home with me at some point. You're the only one out of us who hasn't been, and it's – I've become completely Parisian by now, and it's not the kind of life I want to go back to permanently, but it's really nice there. Lots of open spaces. The landscape might make for good pictures.”

“Oh.” When Enjolras looked at Grantaire, he was frowning, his eyes back on the ground. “That's unexpected,” he said then, with a smile that just missed looking easy. “We share a bed twice, and you're already making me meet the parents.”

Enjolras rolled his eyes. It was a reflex; being snappy was safer than being hurt. “No one's making you do anything. Just say no.”

“I.”

He didn't finish the sentence. Enjolras thought he might, at first, but Grantaire fell silent and walked on, staring resolutely at the ground. If he hadn't known it was a bad idea to suggest this, obviously a step too far and overstraining this fragile thing between them, perhaps Enjolras might have been hurt, but with things as they were, he only wanted to slap himself. He never used to speak without thinking, least of all around people like Grantaire who were listening so much more closely than they let on.

“Hold on.” He slowed down, forgetting about how untouchable the silence between them had become for a moment. A boardwalk was running along the riverside and, not far from them, curved to bend as a bridge across the river. Grantaire came to a halt at the side of it to read the small plaque that had been set up.

“ _Passerelle La Belle Liègeoise_ ,” he read. “Looks nice.”

Stricken, Enjolras stopped moving. “Did you say La Belle Liègeoise?”

“What, that ring a bell?” Grantaire stepped aside when Enjolras stood next to him, examining the plaque for himself.

“Oh,” he said, stunned. “That's – this is unbelievable.” Grantaire was looking at him sceptically, and Enjolras gestured at the plaque. “They named a bridge after Théroigne, _the_ Théroigne. I didn't know about this, that's incredible. Of all the people they could have...” He shook his head. “I can't believe I could have missed this and never known about it, and we just came across it by coincidence.”

Grantaire, when Enjolras looked up, was still staring. “I'm missing some vital information here.”

“She was a hero of the revolution,” Enjolras said, tracing the edges of the plaque with a finger. “A feminist and brilliant speaker. I've never seen her acknowledged like this, that's... that's phenomenal. And I had no idea.”

“Huh.” Grantaire stepped forward, walking across the boards up to the railing. “That's pretty cool. I've never heard of her.”

“Not nearly enough people have,” Enjolras said. “They've been more acknowledging in the history books lately, but the rest of the world has so much catching up to do. I've never seen anything like this. Think about the places in Paris – you can count the ones named after women on one hand. They must have wanted to honour her near her home.”

“Maybe they should start a re-naming program in Paris.” Grantaire grinned. “Goodbye Alexandre III, we're calling it Pont Sand from now on.”

“No, spare Alexandre, the first one to go would be Louis-Philippe.” Slowly, Enjolras went up the boardwalk, Grantaire not far behind. “Beyond that, anything goes.”

He heard Grantaire laugh, and the residual uneasy feeling in his chest ebbed away. This was safe territory, a place where he found the right words with less difficulty. A place for them to stay in, he decided.

Near the other side of the river and almost across, they were leaning over the railing and watching the steady flow of the river when Grantaire, looking down, waved. “Hey there.”

Enjolras let his gaze follow Grantaire's to where a small group of people were scattered along the riverside, one of them waving up. They looked about their age, some younger, some older, and seemed to be in the process of setting something up on the banks.

“Hi.” The girl that had waved was cupping one hand and calling up to them. “How's it going?”

“Pretty well,” Grantaire replied. “We're impressed by the bridge.”

“Awesome,” the girl said. Something about the way she held herself – the wide stance, the open posture, but especially the kind of smirk that seemed to hold a challenge – reminded Enjolras of Bahorel. “It's ours.”

Grantaire grinned. “Like the streets?”

The girl laughed and toasted them with a can. “Exactly.”

Grantaire elbowed Enjolras gently and gave him a questioning look. Enjolras nodded, all too aware that it wasn't particularly obliging to virtually force a social butterfly like Grantaire to communicate with no one but Enjolras for as long as they'd been travelling together. That aside, Enjolras had realised in Norway that essentially anywhere in Europe, left was drawn to left, and here and now, signs pointed.

The girl's name was Chris (Christine, but no thank you, as she informed them), and her friends were at the river celebrating “nothing in particular.” The building – Enjolras noted that it looked to be in slightly better shape up close – used to be a community centre before its funding was cut, and so far, no further plans had been announced for its use. “We're close to the group that suggested the bridge's naming,” she said when Enjolras followed up on the subject. “So it kind of would have felt wrong not to establish squatter's rights. This way, it's kept in the family.”

It was an easy fit. They agreed to help with the setup and stay a while, Chris introduced some of her friends, Enjolras exchanged numbers with the people in charge of media and representation so they could stay in touch, and Grantaire effortlessly fell into conversation with a group of people a little further from the bridge, where they'd claimed a pergola of the adjacent park. Interaction seldom came as easy to Enjolras as when he knew he was in like-minded circles, and he was familiar with this, with networking and exchanging ideas and discussing programs.

The group was colourful, boisterous and optimistic, and as such reminded him of home. They also had even more questions for Enjolras than he did for them, wanting to know about everything from organisational challenges in a capital to differences from their own systems, and Enjolras loved talking to them, having his stories and ideas met with enthusiasm instead of indifference for the first time in months. It was good, being eased back into the life that expected him: he hadn't noticed before, but there had been a small suspicion eating at him, the slight anxiety that he might have become out of tune with his own work while he'd been unable to engage properly. This didn't quite serve as confirmation, but it did give him hope that he had nothing to fear, and eventually, in the middle of a conversation with a law student whose name he hadn't caught, Enjolras realised that somehow, time had rushed by and the sun had set.

There was still plenty of light, with them being so close to the main streets and the boardwalk. He'd missed this as well, he realised, living in a city that was never really dark. People had separated into smaller groups of two or three, scattered across the length of the riverbanks, some that were close enough to the speakers dancing in pairs, some talking, almost all drinking.

“Sorry,” Enjolras frowned, feeling even more impolite to ask that of someone whose name he wasn't sure of, “did you see Grantaire anywhere? I came with him, he's – tall, dark hair, probably smoking?”

Law student shook his head, tapping the ashes off his own cigarette with a flick. “Sorry. Something wrong?”

“No, I just lost track of time. And of him, apparently. I think I should...”

Law student gave a brief nod to indicate he understood, and Enjolras slipped away. There was no reason to worry, but checking in couldn't hurt. He walked back down the riverside and up to the building – a small group was lounging on the stairs to the entry, but Grantaire wasn't among them, and he had to walk up closer to the board walk to find him.

He was under the bridge, the tip of his cigarette glowing faintly. Chris was next to him, their voices hushed as they talked, and they seemed caught up in their own little world, sharing secrets in that careless way that was only possible with near-strangers.

Enjolras wondered, for a moment, what exactly it was he'd been worried about.

Not far from him, some of the others were sitting with their legs dangling over the ledge, their feet in the water, and Enjolras walked over, putting distance between himself and the small scene he'd intruded on, to follow their example. The water was only slightly disgusting – the surface looked oily, the ledge itself a little slimy – and, this was what made everything else unimportant, it was cool. He leaned back and closed his eyes, trying to enjoy the cold and focusing on nothing else. They were sobering, the darkness and the coolness. They made him feel clear-headed. He was going to be home tomorrow, and for the first time since he'd left, he knew he was ready to be.

“Hey.”

Enjolras kept his eyes closed for another moment. “Hey.” He opened them, and Grantaire was kicking off his shoes next to him and sat down, feet touching the surface of the water.

“Shark?”

Grantaire had produced the paper bag out of thin air, offering it to Enjolras, who shook his head no. “Gelatin.”

“Ah, fuck. Sorry.” He took one for himself instead. “You okay?”

“Are you? I didn't even think about it earlier, but all of us just assumed you'd been consciously avoiding this sort of thing.”

“I was, kind of.” Grantaire rested back on his hands. “Turns out I didn't need to. Pleasant surprise, actually. Means I can tentatively put partying with strangers back on the schedule.”

Enjolras wanted to touch him. He almost did, thinking that if last night hadn't happened, he would, without questioning it. His fingers tightened on the stone ledge. “That's good. I'm really glad for you.”

“Thanks.”

The noise behind them seemed to become louder when they didn't talk; the soft trill of music, deliberately kept quiet, the clinking of glasses, the echo of chatter around them, all of it seemed to have risen in volume. Enjolras listened to it closely, trying to let it drown out his thoughts.

He wanted too much. Part of him felt he should leave, keep Grantaire at a distance until they were inevitably separated at home, but he knew it would be a pointless effort. He was a rational person. Restraining himself worked perfectly well without physical boundaries.

The camera sat next to Grantaire, too close to the water for Enjolras' peace of mind. “Did you take pictures?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire smiled. “It was exactly like photographing you and the others, that kind of energy. Shitty lighting, but it worked for the mood. Want to see?”

“Sure.”

Grantaire moved closer to him, throwing the strap of the camera over his neck before he held it up between them. “Most of them are pretty dark,” he said, flicking through pictures on the small screen. “I didn't bring a tripod, and with the kind of exposure time that lets in more light, you'd need an immovable hand _and_ motive for them to come out sharp, so... you kind of have to make the blur work for you.”

The darker pictures showed vague figures, shapes and shadows in blue and black. They were beautiful, but it was hard to recognise the mood of the night in them, something hopeful and energised. There were others, too though, lighter ones with blurs of colour, purple and orange, and capturing the hazy outlines of people laughing, Chris dancing, and once, Enjolras, tipping his head back to drink from a can. “You just had to capture that of all things, didn't you.”

“The others won't know that was just root beer. I'm captioning it _Enjolras Throwing Down_.”

Enjolras frowned. “They know I wouldn't get drunk travelling with you.”

“Nah, they know you don't get drunk, period. I was kidding. The picture was just –” He drew his eyebrows together, seeming to re-write what he was about to say. “It's a good angle on you.”

His hesitation was difficult to parse. Enjolras told himself that he changed the topic because he didn't want to try, because whatever answers he came up with might be painful, but what he said next was, somehow, worse.

“I'm sorry about earlier.” He looked down at the blurred outline of his feet in the water. “I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Ah.” Grantaire made a vague noise. It might have meant recognition or regret. “No, I was kind of a dick about the whole...” He paused, then fought out the last word as if it caused him pain. “Everything. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be, there's no need.” Enjolras meant it. He _did_. He had no idea what to do with the knowledge that it still felt like a lie. “I sprung that on you out of nowhere, it wasn't fair. We can just forget about it.”

“I'm still – adjusting,” Grantaire said. He was so sincere, so serious, just as Enjolras would normally love to see him. Why didn't it feel good now? “This thing's new, isn't it? Being friends. I mean, we were friends, sure, but not – _friends_. And I was kind of dealing with this thing before that made me weird around you, and I'm trying to deal with it differently, now, and apparently sometimes that just – results in me shutting down. I'm, uh, I'll work on that. My point is, I was going to say yes.”

Enjolras hadn't kept up with him, still caught in trying to dissect what he'd said at the beginning to process what had come afterwards. Grantaire had struggled with a “thing” that made it hard to be around Enjolras. Grantaire had still been uncomfortable around him when they'd known each other for years. Words bubbled up in his mind and started spinning in endless loops, _What did I do to you, what did I do_ , with the more desperate plea of _Tell me and I'll fix it_ at their heels. The silence ran out, and Enjolras caught up. “You were?”

“Of course I was. I mean, I didn't expect you to offer, but come on. It's seeing where you're from, what kind of idiot would pass up that chance? You're a fucking miracle. There has to be something in the water over there.”

Enjolras ached. There was nothing new about this, not really, it was just how Grantaire talked, those were just things he said, things he'd _always_ said, either off-handedly or with a harshness so insistent it seemed artificial, as if he never quite wanted his words to mean anything. Grantaire had driven him through the continent, had agreed to do it without hesitating. Grantaire had shouted at him when he'd seen his bloody feet.

Grantaire was still talking.

“And I mean like, fairy dust or something, the good kind, not the way something is obviously in the water here, which I think might just be industrial waste –”

He gestured, a wide, swooping gesture to encompass the river, and Enjolras caught his wrist without effort. His grip was loose, but Grantaire stilled completely. His expression was suddenly guarded.

The design was faintly visible on the back of his hand, the swirling, round patterns he'd drawn on in Sweden two days ago. It felt much longer than that.

“It's almost gone.” Enjolras ran his thumb across the skin there. The words spinning around and running through his mind over and over had changed to a steady beat of _Do you like me, please like me_ , and he couldn't be sure they weren't about to push to the surface.

Grantaire said nothing. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his cheeks were slightly darker than usual, and for how long had Enjolras wanted him?

Enjolras linked their fingers, folding their hands together until they were locked, palm to palm. He did it slowly, carefully, leaving easily enough time for Grantaire to pull back – he almost expected him to, but Grantaire watched, let it happen, and then, still quiet, squeezed Enjolras' hand with his.

It hadn't been absurd, Enjolras told himself later, to read it as an affirmation. He'd been wrong, but he hadn't been out of his mind.

“I know, it's fading.” Grantaire moved his hand slightly when Enjolras gave him a questioning look. “Which is tragic. It's kind of my only souvenir.”

“There's still the scrapbook.”

Grantaire smiled. “Nah, that's all yours.”

Enjolras was set to protest, but Grantaire wasn't completely wrong – the scrapbook had become, over the past few days, his, not by deliberation but simply as a matter of course. He took the pictures, he was the one who had his hands free to write in it, to scribble down song titles, while they were driving. “That doesn't seem very fair.”

“Yeah, you've left me with getting this permanently tattooed as my only option. That's cruel.”

“It is.” Enjolras couldn't take his eyes off him, now, and something significant, something tense and narrowing, had dissolved in the past few moments. “You deserve better.”

Grantaire pressed his hand again. His other one was tucked into his pocket, and he was glancing at Enjolras intermittently, uncertain, almost shy, but not uneasy. There was a stray curl falling across his eye, and Enjolras wanted to reach out and brush it away, then let his hand rest on the back of his neck, keeping him close.

A small noise, a quick intake of breath, alerted him that he didn't simply want, he'd done it. He'd touched the side of Grantaire's face, had drawn him in slightly, he'd leaned in close enough for their foreheads to touch.

Was this too much? Too quick? Grantaire had drawn his free hand to touch Enjolras' knee, he didn't move away, on the contrary; he was close and he wasn't moving a muscle, as if pulled in by a magnetism. Enjolras kissed him in a moment completely void of second-guessing and analysis, not to indulge, but to do what seemed natural, what felt right. It _did_ feel right, tucking a hand to the nape of Grantaire's neck and gently drawing him in the rest of the way, it felt right to kiss him, a slight brush of lips at first, then letting Grantaire move to fit their lips together. It felt right enough for Enjolras to think, for a moment of exhilarating silliness, that he never wanted to move away.

Grantaire pulled back, and in an instant, the feeling dropped into nothingness. “Sorry,” he said, every line of his body had become tense alarmingly quickly, the way he'd been last night, that same terse focus that had been so difficult to watch that Enjolras had offered relief without thinking about it. Something cold pooled in the pit of Enjolras' stomach. “Sorry, this is – I'm sorry, _fuck_ , I wouldn't – I can't do this.”

“Don't,” Enjolras said without thinking as shame and anger flooded him at once, white and hot. He had no excuse for this, no instincts to fall back on. Nothing remotely resembling this had ever happened to him, this _wasn't what he did_. “Don't say sorry, I just presumed, that wasn't okay –”

“It's fine.” Grantaire said it quickly, like something to get over with. “Easy presumption to make, not really your fault. Um. Sorry, is it okay if I –”

Enjolras felt sick. “Of course.” _You don't have to ask_ , he almost added, but the utter condescension the thought came with turned his stomach. The turn of this into something ugly had happened so fast, half of him hadn't caught up yet – it was difficult to tell if his heart was still racing from earlier, or if this was enough to make him spiral into panic. “Grantaire, I'm really sorry.”

“It's fine.” He even smiled, quickly, and got to his feet. “Um. Let me know when you're ready to leave, I guess?”

It fell flat, the stumbling attempt at normalcy, the desperate pretence that there was a way to come back from this. Enjolras still went along with it. He tried for a smile in return, and could picture it to be the most twisted, ugly thing, so obviously false. “Sure.”

He didn't see Grantaire leave, but he was alone moments later, every muscle in his body forced into tight complacency as he willed himself to stay where he was. He'd been so desperate to talk to someone this morning, and now, the possibility seemed too distant to even consider, pushed far off by shame and confusion and the quiet knowledge that he didn't deserve to have anyone listen to him, not after this.

His world had tilted; bits were falling out of frame. Watching as it happened, Enjolras sat by the water and waited for his hands to stop shaking.

 

The way back to the hotel was miserable, and for both of them, Enjolras assumed. After they'd said goodbye to the others, Chris walked them to a bus station and seemed blissfully oblivious of how heavy the silence between them had become. “You'll email me about those sponsors?”

“Promise.” Enjolras reciprocated the hug and the kisses, barely feeling the touch. Since earlier, his entire body seemed to have gone numb. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“No one else is going to.” She turned to Grantaire and Enjolras wondered, seeing their interaction, if he was imagining the tension in Grantaire's posture, in his gestures. There was a dull pain in his chest that spread further at the sight.

Grantaire was quiet on the bus, his fingers wound together in his lap, thumbs drumming nervously. Enjolras had made sure not to sit too close to him, but he knew that wasn't enough, that there was still something to be said. He couldn't bring himself to break the silence, silence that was stretching and thinning until Enjolras was sure it was about to snap, and he didn't want to think about what would happen when it did.

The first thing either of them said in more than an hour was anticlimactic, which Enjolras was almost grateful for. Going through his bag as Grantaire was studying the road map for the next day, he glanced at him carefully. “When you were packing up this morning, did you see a white bottle? Small; blue label?”

Grantaire looked up, eyes wide, and shook his head. “I didn't, I – if it was in the bathroom, I might have overlooked it. I just took everything from the shower, there didn't seem to be anything on the sink.”

“Oh.”

“I'm really sorry.” Grantaire frowned, genuinely guilt-stricken, which was the last thing he was supposed to be, and Enjolras already wanted to take the question back. “How big a problem is that?”

“It's not,” Enjolras said quickly. “It's not a problem, don't worry. I can just buy more tomorrow.”

It was, of course, a problem, because not much later when Grantaire was in the bathroom and Enjolras' contacts were stored dry in their bottle, which was sure to have ruined them in the morning, he realised that they were out of water and unlikely to make it through the night without any. There was a vending machine in the corridor, and he could make his way there either stumbling and running into doors, or wearing his replacement glasses.

Having settled on the latter, Grantaire was already in bed when he returned, resting back against the wall and his eyes trained on his phone. Wordlessly, Enjolras put down one of the water bottles on the nightstand on Grantaire's side, and flinched when he heard a small, sharp intake of breath next to him.

“Sorry.” Enjolras swallowed his pride; wounded as it was, it had no place between them. “I'm – I'll keep my distance, please don't worry.”

Grantaire's eyes followed him as he moved around the bed and shut off the overhead lights. He didn't meet them, he found that he couldn't, and was painfully aware of his own cowardice.

Every movement felt intrusive and presumptuous. He sat back on the bed, could still feel Grantaire's gaze as he plugged his phone in to charge, as he found the paper he'd bought at a kiosk right after they'd arrived, as he settled in to read. For as long as he knew Grantaire was looking at him, reading a single sentence was impossible, and finally, it became too much to take. If Grantaire needed another apology, he could have it, Enjolras was prepared to say anything, but this – the silence, the looks, the quiet reproach or worse, apprehension – was unbearable. He turned to meet his eyes. “Grantaire, I'm –”

Grantaire was kissing him before Enjolras had even noticed the careful hand on the side of his face, the thumb brushing across his cheekbone. _Oh_. A strange, startled noise that tried and failed to express protest escaped his throat, but he didn't draw back – _couldn't_ draw back, not immediately, not when every nerve and muscle of his body was urging him towards Grantaire. Dazed from the sudden assault on his senses, he kissed back, his fingers finding their way into Grantaire's curls and their lips sliding together easily. Grantaire was careful, if unrelenting, kissing Enjolras as if he needed him like breath, his lips were chapped and his hands warm, and it was so easy to fall into that, to let him give and to take and take and take –

In a moment of lucidity, Enjolras pulled away. Grantaire was still close, Enjolras could feel his breath against his own wet lips, coming too fast and unevenly. He shook his head, trying to scramble together enough words to make sense. “You didn't – no, _you said no-_ ”

“I lied,” Grantaire said. His voice was thick and he looked wrecked, his cheeks were flushed and his lips still parted as if in anticipation, and Enjolras couldn't look at him for long. “I fucking lied to your face, I'm the worst, I'm sorry. I didn't see this happening, not _ever_ , so I panicked, so I lied, which in hindsight is the most idiotic thing I could possibly have done, but look, just...”

His hand was still where it had been, Enjolras realised, warm against his skin. Enjolras was looking for reasons to keep away, things that told him to back off, but Grantaire was so close, he was warm and open and his eyes kept flicking back to Enjolras' lips, and he hadn't stopped stroking his thumb gently across Enjolras' jaw.

“If you still – I want to.” Grantaire didn't look away now, eyes heavy-lidded and shining. “Just this, Enjolras, please–”

He leaned into Grantaire with an unhappy noise of protest against the plea, fitting their lips together. Grantaire melted under his touch, and that _hurt_ ; he kissed Enjolras with desperate urgency and a careful kind of tenderness at once, and Enjolras didn't understand, couldn't possibly comprehend why someone who craved to be touched this much would have refused just a little while earlier. Grantaire hummed against his lips and pulled him closer with a hand at the small of his back, and Enjolras, slowly, forgot to think about it.

He forgot to think about anything at all. This didn't need thought, he was running on instinct and sensation alone until the only clear word in his mind was Grantaire's name. He wanted him everywhere. Grantaire held him and never relented, leaving Enjolras in a helpless place that with all its newness felt right, a place of reciprocity in hunger, where Enjolras, for once, found himself wanting, and wanting, and wanting.

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tiny PSA: so far, I've always been hesitant about responding to all comments mainly because I know there's a handful of people that chooses fics by number of comments rather than kudos, and I didn't want to mislead anyone by giving my own stories more traffic than, y'know, there actually was. Lately it's been making me feel really stand-offish, though, and I wouldn't want anyone to think that I don't absolutely adore them for commenting, so there's gonna be a reply-to-everything-policy from now on. :)  
>   
> I'm [here](http://lesamis.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. Thank you so much for reading. ♥


	9. Liège - Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire thinks things to pieces, Paris is, against all expectations, still in the same place, and a cat is unimpressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I believe it myself, but welcome to the last update on this story! Thank you for sticking with it for so long. <3

The room was too warm, and Grantaire barely noticed.

He willed his eyes to stay closed. It wasn't easy, because he could feel Enjolras breathe so close to him, and he wanted to see him, if only to be completely sure he was really there. Up until a few minutes ago, Grantaire had been asleep, and the heat must have woken him, thick and uncomfortable, especially with the way they were lying curled closely together, arms locked.

Bringing distance between him and Enjolras was unthinkable.

Moments passed, and Grantaire tried to silence the noise in his head. The last thirty-six hours were a trance, a fever-dream of the cruellest kind. He could almost hear a soft, sly voice constantly whispering _What else do you want? Here, have it_ , and the happiness of it was terrible. He tried to figure out how to trust something like that, and came up empty.

He noticed something else, then, over the cacophony of doubt. Carefully, he blinked, and found Enjolras' open eyes looking back at him.

Enjolras smiled. He must have been amused, Grantaire thought, by seeing Grantaire asleep, curled up on his side, arms between them, hands open. Grantaire was rarely so peaceful around him. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

“Hm, but you did,” Grantaire whispered. “You think too loudly.”

Enjolras shifted, slightly, his fingers moving to brush against Grantaire's arm. In inches, he moved forward, pulling them closer together until their foreheads touched. He held Grantaire there, still smiling, and said nothing more.

Nothing about this, not how close Enjolras was, and how sweet he'd been, and how utterly _devious_ , felt real. Their closeness was undeniable and incredible, Grantaire was dizzy with it, and he was terrified of it. 

He lay awake for far longer than he should, convincing himself over and over that this reality was there to stay. In the dark, Enjolras must have been awake as well, but neither of them spoke, and finally, Grantaire closed his eyes.

 

The bed was cooler the next time he woke up. He didn't need to open his eyes to know Enjolras was gone, but he did, blinking to see that it was still dark, still night, and that he was alone in the room.

Knowing he wouldn't – and possibly shouldn't, if someone was to make sure Enjolras made his way back to the room safely – fall back asleep, he rolled over and reached blindly for his phone. The glaring digits of it (03:27, what a fantastic time to be awake) did a fair job of waking him up the rest of the way.

He waited with a morbid kind of patience for the panic to arrive, for the inevitable fight or flight reaction to kick in, but nothing happened. Instead, he remained calm, secure at least in the knowledge that the damage was done and there was, perhaps, a way of moving forward from the wreckage now.

Had he been waiting for this? The thought that he might have been made a terrifying amount of sense. He'd been stuck on Enjolras for long enough that it should have been grating, should have been restricting and infuriating, but the truth was that he'd never really considered his feelings a problem. Not a solvable one, at least, not one that required to be dealt with. The last few years hadn't exactly seen him looking for a relationship that they might have interfered with. In fact, anything but that had been on his mind, he hadn't needed a relationship, he hadn't needed anything so ridiculously luxurious; he'd needed to survive. Loving Enjolras had been there as the humming background noise of his life, something that was easy to ignore until the world around him got too quiet.

He wasn't sure if he'd been waiting for it, but either way, it had happened, the collision it took for him to think for the first time since they'd met, _Get over this or it's going to break you_. There was no way back from here.

Perhaps, Grantaire thought, that was a good thing.

 

Enjolras came back into the room not much later, in street shoes, his t-shirt from earlier, and jogging bottoms, and frowned when he saw Grantaire up. “Did I wake you? I'm sorry.”

“Nah, it's fine.” Grantaire shifted on the bed. He looked Enjolras over: he was uneasy, unsure what to do with his hands, eyes flitting about the room too quickly. It made Grantaire want to speak softly. “You okay?”

“Yes.” Enjolras was still in the doorway, as if he couldn't bring himself to come all the way inside yet. He closed the door behind himself after what must have been an inner battle of astounding proportions. “I just went –” He stopped. “I took a walk.”

“Mh.” Grantaire nodded. “I hear industrial parks are lovely this time of night.”

Enjolras looked even unhappier with this, eyebrows drawing together to form a small furrow over his nose. Grantaire thought of Enjolras' softness when he was being kissed, of how feeling him relax under every gentler touch was a rare kind of miracle that Grantaire had been helplessly in awe of. By what twist of fate had he deserved to witness that? It was ridiculous, presumptuous even, to assume that he'd be allowed to hold onto that feeling, not to mention have it again.

The frown had become more pronounced. Enjolras was looking at the ground, and Grantaire, in turn, looked away when he saw Enjolras raise his eyes. “Grantaire –”

“I don't mind,” Grantaire said, hurried, because it was infinitely easier to be the one to say this than to hear it said to him. “If you want for us to never mention this again. I don't. I'm fantastic at keeping things under wraps. I made out with Bossuet once, did you know that? Yeah, neither does anyone else.”

Enjolras was staring openly now. Grantaire could punch himself for being the one to put that expression on his face, he wasn't even sure he'd ever seen it on Enjolras before, something between terrified and exasperated. “ _What_?”

Last night, Grantaire had pulled Enjolras on top of him with fingers hooked in his waistband, and Enjolras, brushing his lips against Grantaire's jawline, had pried his hands away and pinned them to the mattress, laughing against his skin. It had felt like a dance they'd done a hundred times before, instinctive and perfectly synchronised, and here they were, tripping over all the wrong words.

Grantaire steeled himself. _Enough of this_. “Listen, we'll be home in... no time at all, really. Hell, if you like, we can leave right now. You'll have your own bed again, and I'll be in my flat, we – we won't even have to see each other. It's just a few more hours. We can be reasonable about this for a few hours.”

Enjolras' expression didn't change, but Grantaire saw him swallow hard, and his fingers curled into a fist. “Pretending nothing happened isn't my idea of being reasonable.”

Grantaire wondered what kind of response to that could possibly save him. _Knock yourself out, I'm listening_? _I'm in love with you, is that enough to make you never want to mention this again_? He took Enjolras in, the unwavering gaze, the dip in his lower lip that made it obvious he was chewing on the inside of it. He stopped wondering. “Okay.” He sat up straight on the bed. “What do you need? Whatever you want is what we do.”

Something flickered over Enjolras' features, the briefest softened moment. He sat at the end of the bed, almost tentative, and when he looked up again, only certainty was left of the earlier fresco of emotions. “I want to talk.”

 

They left without breakfast in the morning, but Grantaire, under Enjolras' disapproving gaze, stole two plastic-wrapped pains au chocolat from the buffet.

“We paid for them, technically. You'll thank me when we get stuck in summer vacation traffic on the A1 without food or water.”

Enjolras had nothing to say in response. He had been quiet all morning – not that he was normally chatty, but he tended to indulge Grantaire when it came to conversations. He was taciturn, not tongue-tied.

Grantaire couldn't help but feel responsible. They'd talked, they'd talked until the sun had come up, and Grantaire thought he'd done a fairly reasonable job of sticking to all his objectives: put Enjolras first, don't be an asshole, and for everything that is holy, don't dump any overwhelming confessions on him. He'd even managed to remain honest within those confines. When Enjolras had asked what had made him change his mind after the first kiss, Grantaire had told him the truth: that there were many possible reactions people might have to being turned down by someone, but the most _he'd_ ever gotten was a shrug and a “Shame,” and that he'd initially thought he was sparing Enjolras the experience of doing something he might come to regret. He'd told him that he hadn't expected in a million years that Enjolras would be the way he'd been afterwards, quietly seething with anger, all of it directed inwards, and tender with shame.

He'd added, for the sake of being comprehensive, that contrary to what Enjolras thought, he was beautiful in those glasses he hated, and Grantaire was only human.

It hadn't been too difficult to navigate the rest of the conversation without having to tell a blatant lie. Was he okay with that had happened? Obviously. What did he think it had been? A kindness, a mutual agreement to indulge in something they both wanted. Did he want it to keep happening? Not if Enjolras didn't.

He tried not to think about how much it had felt like an interview, like a careful but clinical assessment of damage. It hadn't expressed regret, not really, but Grantaire had seen Enjolras like this before, single-minded and focused because something hadn't gone as planned, and in consequence, harm reduction was needed. And that had really told him all he needed to know, hadn't it? Enjolras had come back into the hotel room after doing fuck knows what, he'd assessed the situation, and he'd seen something that needed fixing. To Grantaire, that cut out the path he needed to take rather unambiguously. Enjolras needed to go back to how things had been – to the tentative trust between them, to a relationship on the cusp of genuine friendship – ideally without any losses. Grantaire could make that possible, and he'd tailored his answers to that exact scenario without straying too far from the truth.

None of that explained Enjolras' silence, though, and it was becoming more difficult to bear by the minute. Grantaire had taken to memorising the names of towns they passed, playing the chain of them on repeat in a pathetic solo-round of _I packed my bag_. Namur. Namur – Charleroi. Namur – Charleroi – La Louvière. Namur – Charleroi – La Louvière – Mons.

“Hey.” They had just passed Saint-Ghislain, and Enjolras was leaning over his sudoku book, completely immersed. Perhaps they really had come full circle. It didn't matter that speaking was apparently not a thing they did anymore; Enjolras wasn't allowed to miss this. “France is about to have you back.”

“Oh.” Enjolras folded over the pages and levelled his gaze to look out of the window. “Already?”

Grantaire had been going fast. Illegally fast, in parts. Not dangerously fast, and never fast enough to make Enjolras even take notice of it, but it went without saying that he was as desperate as it got at this point to get them home quickly. He needed distance between them, and as soon as possible.

“Almost. One or two kilometres to the border.”

Enjolras relaxed in his seat again, but he kept looking forward, and Grantaire wondered, not for the first time since they'd started the trip, what this meant to him. Grantaire had spent long stretches abroad before, and there was always a certain relief to coming home, but while Paris was the one place he knew he was going to circle back to no matter what, he had no trouble feeling at home elsewhere, temporarily. The longer they'd travelled, the more obvious it had become that Enjolras didn't have that capacity, not quite; he seemed to feel like a guest at best and like an intruder at worst. He lacked entitlement. It was hard to imagine the toll that kind of thinking might take over a whole semester in a strange place.

Grantaire wasn't sure what he'd expected would happen when they passed the border – at least a comment or two on the tragedy of temporary border controls, or at least a nostalgic sigh – but nothing did. A short stop, a show of passports, and the silence was back. It was an empty room with an undertow, begging to be filled, but Grantaire couldn't bring himself to try. So what if he disliked the quiet? There was music, and he'd managed to keep his mind busy perfectly for the last hour and a half. If anything, the silence now only cemented what had already been clear before: Enjolras had no desire to talk; he'd even switched from his sudoku to his phone, now, no doubt reaping the benefits of being within the range of his cell contract again.

It was fine. Grantaire could do this. And he did, for what felt like an eternity; he listened to every single word that was sung and dove straight into discussing song lyrics with himself, he checked for traffic reports far more often than necessary, he counted the yellow cars they passed. Just as he'd almost managed to really make his mind stray from the quiet downwards spiral it was definitely caught in at this point, Enjolras spoke.

“We can't do it like this.”

“Um.” Grantaire reached to turn down the radio volume. “Actually, I don't think I'm up to speed with how we're doing it.”

“There isn't – neither of us wanted to regress, did we? This, not talking, this isn't – it shouldn't be like this. I don't want to it to be.”

 _You can't talk. It's you_. Grantaire stopped himself from saying it, because hadn't every single thing he had tried to say since this morning felt forced and wrong? Hadn't he noticed, if he was being honest, how carefully he wanted to watch his own words now, when he was practically notorious for never thinking before he spoke? How he'd had to make himself speak all day, rather than just done it? He was doing it right now, fumbling with words and feeling unable to catch hold of any that felt right.

“Something's still not right, is it?” When Grantaire glanced over, Enjolras looked just as tired as him. “I have no right to ask you to tell me something you'd rather not, but I... It meant a lot that we were doing better, as friends. If I damaged that irreversibly, I need to know.”

It was difficult to tell which part of that statement stung the most. Grantaire felt his palms become uncomfortably sweaty around the steering wheel. “You keep saying _I_ ,” he muttered. “We had a pretty mutual thing going on there.”

Enjolras didn't respond. As the moments passed, Grantaire understood that it was a wordless patience; Grantaire hadn't actually answered the question yet. It struck him as an unfair question, too, not that he could genuinely complain about that, but Enjolras hadn't given up a single piece of himself. Enjolras had conducted an interview as if he hadn't been involved; Enjolras had posed the question as if it was somehow obvious that if something remained unsaid between them, it would be Grantaire's fault. And it wouldn't occur to Grantaire to demand the same honesty from Enjolras that Enjolras was demanding from him, not from _Enjolras_ , who loved to hide behind professionalism and who could probably count the times he'd let down his guard on one hand, but...

“I'm not –” Enjolras broke off. He looked tired. “I'm not demanding anything, I know that wouldn't be fair. But it has to be possible to have a conversation about this, we're both adults.”

“We've had a conversation.”

“We tried to have one. It really feels as if there's something unsaid.”

“Of course there is, _you won't talk!_ ” The words came out too fast and too angry. Grantaire sucked in a breath as soon as he'd said them. “Fuck. Sorry, that – I'm sorry.”

He could feel Enjolras looking at him as he kept his own eyes on the road, but he didn't say anything, and Grantaire felt ill. Enjolras didn't deserve any of this.

“Is that what's bothering you?”

Oh, heavens. “No, it's not – bothering me. You don't have to tell me anything, I didn't want to make it sound as if –”

“Please be honest.”

“I am.” Enjolras knew that, too – Grantaire had kept things to himself in the past, and the past two weeks hadn't exactly been him wearing his heart on his sleeve either, but he didn't lie. He hadn't lied today or last night, when it could probably have salvaged the entire situation. He suspected that even if he was the type of person to make a habit of lying, it'd never occur to him to do it to Enjolras. “I don't want to make you feel as if you have to tell me shit, that's the last thing I want. I know it's not fun for you to talk about yourself, like, no one ever hears you do it, I get that, and it's okay if I'm the only one doing the talking, that's fine, neither of us _has_ to do anything, but it also means it's not going to lead anywhere, okay? I don't know what you're thinking, I don't know what you want, I didn't know any of that yesterday, either. And listen, I can – I can be okay with that. I can deal with that, for myself, by myself, whatever. I just can't keep watching you play conflict-resolver between me and – no one. It's getting us nowhere and it's exhausting and I – I can't.”

Enjolras, again, fell silent. When Grantaire glanced at him, uncertain, he looked thoughtful, which Grantaire supposed was as positive a reaction as he could have hoped for. They stayed like that, quiet and caught between points. It didn't help that Grantaire only realised now that they hadn't switched CDs to the France playlist yet, and now that he knew, he felt a horrible urge to make up for that.

“Could you stop over there?” Enjolras pointed at a sign they passed – a rest stop 500 metres away.

Grantaire held in a sigh. “Sure.” He needed a cigarette anyway, urgently, and even now he was pretty sure Enjolras wasn't asking so that he could find himself another car to hitchhike in and get away from their not-conversation. But then... “Everything okay?”

“Yes, don't worry.”

Enjolras got out of the car as soon as Grantaire cut the engine. Grantaire stayed for a moment, eyes closed, and tried not to think. It didn't work, so he got out and lit a cigarette, eyes wandering to follow Enjolras as he walked to the service station.

He hadn't seemed agitated at all when he'd asked to stop – Grantaire knew agitated Enjolras. He'd been calm, and somehow, that was more worrying. Grantaire realised, and it suddenly was incredibly comical to him, that nothing either of them had been feeling since this morning made a lot of sense: Grantaire had been so happy tonight he'd felt like taking on the whole world, and since this morning, the urge to get away from Enjolras had been so strong he was ready to go well over the speed limit just to make it home more quickly and fuck, what on earth was he _doing_?

And Enjolras, he couldn't be faring much better. Grantaire had never thought much about his relationship with sex – hadn't dared to, it wasn't any of his business, except now it _was_ , kind of – but Enjolras had never introduced Les Amis to anyone, had never dropped a single tongue-in-cheek comment about misguided hook-ups the way the others sometimes liked to, and while that was respected without question, it was also telling in itself, and suddenly of monumental importance. Treating this like a purely physical thing, now, felt like the most misplaced instinct of self-preservation on Grantaire's part; it had been what his gut had told him to do, and he'd been too caught up in it all to question the decision, but stepping back to reconsider, it made no sense at all. Were Enjolras anyone but himself, perhaps it would, were he someone who did things by halves and didn't mind wearing his heart on his sleeve or talking lightly about one-night-stands, were he the kind of person who was aware of his attractiveness and unafraid to use it. This was _Enjolras_ , and he had, in his own way, done so much to indicate that this wasn't something to regret, a one-time satisfaction of mutual needs. He hadn't seduced Grantaire, he'd asked him to come see Soual and meet his parents.

He'd held his hand.

The skin of his index and middle fingers prickled with heat, and Grantaire cursed, dropping the cigarette he'd forgotten he was holding. _Jesus fucking Christ_. It was ironic, in a way, that after so much time, the sneaky conviction that he was impossible to want still held so much power, enough to make him fuck up a chance at something that had at least the potential to be good, that had some promise of happiness, small as it may be.

He stepped on the cigarette, half-burned down, and turned to follow Enjolras to the station, without any clear idea of what he'd say when he found him, except for maybe _I'm sorry for being a self-involved asshole, let's start this whole thing over._ There had to be a better way of putting that.

The sliding doors to the shop opened as Grantaire approached, and he almost ran into Enjolras who, holding a bottle of sweet tea and a bag of caramels, was the one to react in time and stop in his tracks.

After a strange, startled moment, Enjolras moved to get out of the way of the door, and he looked so relaxed, fuck, how did he _do_ that? Grantaire didn't know where to look anymore. This wasn't the way he'd felt this morning and on their drive, this was inconceivable, this was him having to wrap his brain around something impossible, and Enjolras was just standing there. “Did you need anything?”

“You – actually, I was just going to – I was looking for you.”

“I got this, in case you needed replenishment.” He handed Grantaire the sweet tea, still in blissful ignorance, still using words like replenishment in casual conversation, while Grantaire felt like his chest was going to burst open. “And I was just going to get water for myself, but I saw these and suddenly I'd bought them.”

“Must be nostalgia,” Grantaire said, breathless. “Or you miss the others so much your subconscious is craving bad jokes and puns.”

“Perhaps.”

Grantaire fiddled with the plastic wrap around the bottle cap as they walked to the car. He was already out of words, and he couldn't seem to stop holding his breath for seconds at a time, and this was ridiculous.

Enjolras leaned against the hood. The bag of caramels stayed in his hands, but he seemed to have forgotten about it already, instead lost in thought, and Grantaire didn't dare break the silence. Not that he had anything to say – or maybe it was too much, so much that none of it could be useful.

“I'm sorry,” Enjolras said, his voice quiet, but sure. “You were right. Not about everything – I did try to mediate between you and me, but my part didn't happen out loud, so you couldn't have known. Obviously. I'm not – on my own mind a lot.” He grimaced. “Not in a great way, I mean. I'm as selfish as anyone. Possibly more, I can't always tell. But I don't – I ignore a lot of things concerning myself deliberately, because it seems easier, and there's always something more important, and – when I'm forced to stop ignoring them, I'd still rather keep them to myself.”

Grantaire wanted to tell him that made sense, and he wanted to say that there was no obligation for that kind of admission, but he'd said it already, and Enjolras had listened. He had no idea what else to say.

“I think – we should see each other tomorrow, if that's okay for you.” Enjolras looked at him, now, and for once, Grantaire was grateful that he did. He was grateful that they could see each other like this. “If I tried to put this all into words now, it wouldn't make a lot of sense, and you deserve more clarity than that. If you're okay with waiting for it a little longer, I'll get there. We don't have to be like this in the meantime, we don't have to –” He frowned, discontent. “I'm just assuming, I know that, but I think we're acting as if there's something to be scared of when there isn't. To me, there isn't.”

He didn't ask out loud, but the question was there in his eyes. “No,” Grantaire said, almost a whisper. Perhaps, if he talked quietly, there was a chance Enjolras wouldn't notice that every part of him was singing. “There isn't.”

Grantaire couldn't be sure he wasn't imagining it, but Enjolras seemed to relax a fraction, and he smiled. “Good, that's – that's good.”

Suddenly, Grantaire wondered how much of a toll this had taken on Enjolras, too, the fact that they'd spent almost two weeks around the other and, due to Enjolras' ability to shut himself off and the fact that Grantaire was on vacation, pretty much no one _but_ the other. All day, the thought had gnawed at Grantaire, because that circumstance was pretty far up there with possible explanations for what had happened last night. He'd tried not to give the theory too much weight, but ultimately, it had at least seemed like too legitimate a reason to ignore; that Enjolras might have needed relief, and Grantaire had been there.

The disservice he'd done Enjolras in even considering the possibility felt unforgivable. They were going to have to work through that, sooner rather than later.

For now, Enjolras opened the bag of caramels and offered one to Grantaire. Grantaire accepted, trying to keep his fingers as clean as possible as the paper stuck to them.

“ _I have three 'e's, but only contain one letter_ ,” he read. “ _Who am I_?”

“Envelope,” Enjolras replied without thinking. He'd unrolled his own caramel, and tried to decipher the cut-off joke at the bottom of his paper. “ _What do you call a female hamster?_ ”

“I don't think you even want me to reply to that.”

“True. And Amsterdam.”

“Hm?”

“ _L'hamster dame_ ,” Enjolras repeated, with emphasis. “You don't have to laugh, I almost started crying when I read it just now.”

Grantaire shook his head. “That's – so bad. I mean, really, really bad. Was this stuff actually worth missing?”

Enjolras shrugged. He weighed the bag in his hands, thoughtful. “It's home.”

“Unfortunately,” Grantaire said, and took another one. He wasn't entirely sure where he took the courage to say what he said next – it might just have been desperation to say something sincere, if they were going to wait to talk for another day. “I have more to say.” Enjolras frowned at him, questioning. “I mean – I put the blame on you, earlier, and that sucked for a lot of reasons, but it was also hypocritical. There's something I haven't said, and it's kind of crucial, and – honestly, I haven't said half the things you should probably hear out loud.”

Unthinking, Enjolras shifted, leaning more towards him until their arms touched. “Okay,” he said.

Grantaire swallowed. It had been half a confession already, it was half his heart on the table, the thing he'd been terrified of for years out in the open, and it was okay. Amazing, how relief and anxiety and happiness and fear could mingle together to easily.

Enjolras stood silently for a while, tilting his head back and closing his eyes to the sun. Finally, he said, “I'm really glad about this.” He nudged Grantaire just slightly. “I'm thankful it happened, all of it. And I'm saying this because I know you're still worrying.”

Feigning offence would have seemed like an insult, so Grantaire laughed helplessly. “Yeah, I was.”

“We'll figure it out,” Enjolras said, with the kind of conviction that was completely his, easy and enviable. “You'll see.”

For the first time since last night, Grantaire allowed himself to acknowledge that he wanted to kiss Enjolras again, badly. He breathed through it and didn't try, because it didn't feel right, and there was something sweet about waiting, now that there was hope. It made his hands itch and his mind reel. He didn't know what to do with it, but he decided that he liked it, for now.

 

They stayed a while longer, silent and waiting for everything that had been said to settle in. When it didn't, for either of them, they left. The rest of the drive saw them in limbo, with easy conversation still possible, but every single world also carrying an overtone of promise, and to Grantaire, that seemed like a lot of responsibility for small talk about roadside landscaping to hold. In mutual agreement of this, for the most part, they stayed quiet.

As Paris slowly took shape and the roads began to look familiar again, Enjolras lost himself in the view, his eyes taking in every post and sign with a strange kind of hunger. Homesickness hit some harder than others, Grantaire supposed. This was another thing he'd found out and, until now, always failed to appreciate: Enjolras loved this city, the one place other than the town he was born in where he'd been able to make a home. They must have always had that in common, and neither of them had noticed.

At the thought, his mind jumped in all possible directions, into ridiculous fantasies of them seeing each other's favourite places, the ones that were almost too private to divulge. There was a Moroccan café in Grantaire's neighbourhood he'd never taken anyone to, the place where he'd spent most of the more difficult mornings and nights when staying in the apartment had felt as wrong as seeking out his friends.

This was when Grantaire decided that hope was annoying, and chose to ignore it.

The closer they got to Feuilly's and Enjolras' place, the more untouchable the silence became. Grantaire still broke it.

“Everything all right?” He asked just to be sure, because they were going down Faubourg Saint-Antoine, and Grantaire understood for the first time what a complete hell the traffic there must be for Enjolras. It was the street that had affected him so badly in Sweden, only three times larger and more crowded.

Enjolras kept his eyes on the window. “I'm okay.” He smiled slightly, just enough for Grantaire to know it was genuine. “It's not great, but I think my brain has priorities.”

The apartment Feuilly and Enjolras shared was in a narrow residential street that was narrowed even further by the cars parked on either side, because owning a car in inner city Paris was apparently a great idea for a lot of people. (People like, for instance, Combeferre. Grantaire was really going to have to talk to him about the Beetle, there had to be a story there.) Grantaire, suddenly too exhausted to be serious about finding a parking spot, stopped parallel to an already parked car and switched on the hazard lights. It had to be enough – he wasn't going to stay for long.

For an odd moment, still, they both stayed in their seats, silent. Then, just as Grantaire was about to joke about how one of them should probably say a few words, Feuilly appeared at the front door of their building. A second later, Enjolras was no longer in the car, but on the sidewalk, enveloping him in the most sincere and simultaneously most awkward hug Grantaire had ever witnessed.

“Hey, R.” Feuilly waved when Grantaire got out of the car. “Welcome back.”

“And what a welcome,” Grantaire said, gesturing at the haphazardly parked car behind them. “Good to see you.”

“You too.” The greeting was slightly more composed – Grantaire, after all, had seen Feuilly last only three weeks ago – with kisses and a handshake, and it was just about all they had time for, because the next person who had to squeeze by Combeferre's car in their own actually went to the trouble of rolling down their window and cursing.

“This should be most of it,” Enjolras said, having piled the luggage containing a semester's worth of necessities onto the pavement. “Everything else I'll pick up from Combeferre whenever.”

“Right.” Feuilly shouldered one of the bags and picked up a suitcase, and an absurd part of Grantaire wanted the world to stop, then, and let him breathe and come to the surprisingly sudden realisation that just like this, they were home. It was almost unimaginable that the first thing they'd be doing tomorrow morning wouldn't be to get back in the car and drive on – they'd turned a trip that could be done in two days into a trip that lasted for six, and in line with that, it simultaneously felt as if forever had passed, and no time at all.

“Hey, do you want me to get the car to Combeferre?” Feuilly, hesitant and still holding the bags, was watching him. “I could drive you home and then go on to his place, then you wouldn't have to find a parking spot first and drag your luggage home, and Combeferre won't have to pick it up from you.”

Grantaire groaned. “ _How_ are you this good a person? It's thirty degrees and your day off, come on, you don't want to get into that shoebox of a car and drive me through the inner city.”

“Yes or no would suffice as an answer, really.”

“There's no need.” Tortured, Grantaire smiled. This was unbelievable. They'd only just gotten back and the guy's natural kindness was already exhausting. “I'll manage, and Combeferre already said he'll come by on his way from work tomorrow. Thanks, though, you really are the pinnacle of philanthropy.”

“You know, against all odds, I've missed those comments,” Feuilly said with, to Grantaire's delight, genuine surprise. He clapped his shoulder. “Take care.”

“I can always try.”

Grantaire half expected Enjolras to have already left and gotten his other bags to safety, but when Feuilly turned to leave, he was still there waiting, thoughtful eyes on Grantaire.

“I'll, uhm.” Grantaire pointed a thumb in the car's direction in possibly the most cringeworthy gesture of his life. “I'll get going.”

Enjolras nodded, and looked uncomfortably serious as he stepped closer to Grantaire. “Text me when you're home.”

Grantaire's laughter got stuck in his throat. “It's broad daylight, Enjolras. I think I'll get there just fine.”

“I meant about meeting up tomorrow.”

“Oh.” _Oh_ , indeed. Enjolras raised a hand to cup the side of Grantaire's face, and the heat that Grantaire had barely felt a moment ago was suddenly dizzying. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Enjolras pressed gently before he drew his hand away. Then, Grantaire could see him swallow down the words _Thank you_ , and maybe some other ones, and was grateful that he didn't have to hear them.

 

Grantaire didn't technically live far from Enjolras and Feuilly – by linear distance, it was nothing at all. Through the traffic of Paris in the middle of the day, it was a minimum of twenty minutes to drive, and navigating that on top of having to look for a parking spot had Grantaire busy enough to keep him distracted. So distracted, in fact, that when he finally made it to his apartment, he didn't notice that there was a pair of signature ugly flip-flops sitting next to his door, and that he had to only turn the key once before he could open it, even though he'd locked it twice before leaving. This was why, when he spotted Jehan sitting on his couch and tossing treats to his cat, he let out a rather undignified small shout.

“Welcome home!” Jehan smiled, and the sun burned a little brighter. “How's the heart?”

“You're absolutely ridiculous,” Grantaire said. He watched his cat ignore him in favour of snatching another treat, and finally swallowed his pride enough to pull Jehan into a hug. “This is so dramatic, fuck. Why didn't you go all out and get one of those swivelling chairs? Put Javeline on your lap, turn around, 'You only live twice, Mr Bond'...”

“Does that _sound_ like my style to you? For just how long have you been gone?” Jehan beckoned Javeline back to the couch. “Say hello to your human returned from travel, love.”

The cat deigned to press her head against Grantaire's shin for a few seconds, purring loudly, and that was already more than he'd really expected. Heartwarming. “I thought you'd be at work,” Grantaire said, tickling the back of Javeline's neck with one hand. “I'd have come to pick her up later.”

Jehan shrugged. “It's always kind of disappointing to come home to an empty place. I thought you could use a friend.”

“Huh.” He hadn't really taken time before to picture what it'd be like coming home this time, having driven there by himself, not even his cat in the apartment. Looking back, it did sound sad. “It's really sweet of you to offer yourself up there.”

“I was talking about the cat,” Jehan said cheerfully, and then, immediately unhappy with his own sarcasm, added, “but, I came along anyway and I'm here now, so...”

“Yeah.” Grantaire wasn't sure what he'd expected to need – time for himself, probably, after barely having been by himself for more than a few minutes at a time for almost a week. It would have made sense, obviously, and Grantaire was almost prepared to say that he'd rather be on his own for a while, but sincerely and honestly, did he ever? “We should go out.”

“Great!” Jehan sat up. “Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Anywhere?”

Such weight, Grantaire thought, in such few syllables. Jehan knew how to ask without really asking, and as it was, _Are places with alcohol and-slash-or various recreational things okay_ was an inelegant question. “Anywhere,” Grantaire repeated, with emphasis. “You choose. I'll just – get some stuff unpacked, get reacquainted with a real shower, tell myself my cat really missed me; it'll be quick.”

“No need to hurry.” Jehan picked a book at random from the shelf on his way out to Grantaire's tiny balcony, granting him some privacy. “I took the day off.”

 

He hadn't completely arrived yet, not with his whole self, but he was used to that taking a while – normally until he'd slept a night in his own bed. What took him by surprise was how quickly life here caught up with him anyway. He'd only opened his apartment door ten minutes ago, but things came flooding back already: a surely upcoming conversation with Chetta, the leaky faucet in the bathroom that hadn't miraculously fixed itself in the three weeks that he'd been gone, and the fact that he didn't have a massive time frame to find a new second job. That last one especially, he'd tried to ignore: the restaurant-owners and his managers from Job 1 were away on their own summer vacation, so Grantaire wasn't missed there, but the supermarket hadn't been happy about his two-week-leave. At least, Grantaire thought wryly, he'd had to quit before he left for the trip, or he'd have been forced to inform them that he was extending it by another week.

This assortment of fires to put out provided a rather unmerciful realism next to everything else that had been on his mind; all those unlikely things at once. The impossibility of Enjolras' hand against his, the odd, dream-like realisation that life here was still as it had been. Grantaire was dazed from opposing ideas and stubborn hopes, and as always, the best antidote was company.

Jehan knew, somehow and from somewhere, of an open picnic meet-up that had formed on a rooftop in the 5e . They picked random ingredients off a street market on their way, spending just a little more money than either of them should, and when they arrived, the heat was glaring – so, just right –, the people were odd, and the food was abundant. They passed the things they'd brought around, tried a little of everything they were handed in return, and drank cup after paper cup of Maghrebi mint tea. Numbers were exchanged, strange philosophical discussions were instigated by the heat, odd substances were smoked, and the longer the day went on, the more ridiculously soft Grantaire felt, for one of his best friends or the beauty of his home, he wasn't sure. It had been so long since the world had seemed this perfectly simple and right.

Later, when the air cooled down, they took the longer route back to the métro and passed the dancers at Quai Saint Bernard. Grantaire's fingers were tapping along to the rhythm before he gave them permission to.

“Up for a spin, Prouvaire?”

Jehan laughed, startled. “You're ridiculous. I've had so much to eat I can barely walk, let alone dance, and look at you.”

“Your loss.”

They walked on, but Jehan was watching him, and Grantaire waited patiently until he said, in a voice that betrayed how worried he was to be saying the wrong thing, “You know, regardless of what brought it on – think the high's here to stay?”

Grantaire wanted to circumvent the answer, but Jehan had done him the service of not asking anything else today despite the thousands of questions that had been hovering right there for him to grab, and that was too heroic and kind to go unacknowledged. He said, to his own surprise and without bitterness, “No.”

“Hm.” Jehan nodded. He would probably have been satisfied with that answer.

Grantaire still added, not completely without conviction, “I think that's okay.”

He thought of one lacking job, of the amount of money they'd unexpectedly spent on their trip, of an angry ex-mentor and of all his feelings laid out for Enjolras to lay his hands on. He thought of one-too-many cigarettes and the danger of high spirits leading to hubris, of wanting to take a leap because one had mastered a single large step. Nothing about those things was promising comfort or rest.

Nothing before him was easy, then. Today still was. It was easy to tell Jehan he loved him, a truth that held no thorns for either of them, and it was easy to let the city welcome him home. It was easy to navigate his own apartment, leaky faucets and all, and make up his own bed.

He checked his phone at half past eleven, right before shutting off the lights. Enjolras had replied to an earlier hesitant text asking about tomorrow's plans: _Are you free in the afternoon? I'd just come over at four_. It was as unceremonious as it should be, and yet, Grantaire's mind managed to put connotations and implications into every single one of those twelve words. _Four's good_ , he texted back, and then forced his brain to quiet by closing his eyes and dropping into sleep like a stone.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!


	10. Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras arrives home.

Feuilly had classes in the evening. Technically, Enjolras had known this, but he still felt guilty about the short rush of relief he felt when Feuilly reminded him. Feuilly was an ideal roommate, he was quiet and easy-going and conscientious and kind, but there was something about the thought of an empty apartment that felt like a breath of fresh air to Enjolras. He told himself that, to be fair, seeing Feuilly again had felt like that, too, and that needing some space after having shared a compact car for a week was human, not selfish. It worked only partially.

Right after Enjolras arrived, they cooked lunch together, and for that, Enjolras was grateful, too – an actual, nutritious and homemade meal, the largest luxury he'd spent almost his whole life failing to appreciate.

“This is really centring, you know?” Enjolras looked over the assorted piles of vegetables he'd chopped. “Maybe I'll quit my degree and fail to become a chef instead.”

“I like how you just nipped your own daydream in the bud there,” Feuilly said. “Realistic and rational; no bullshit.”

“I got worried halfway through that I was sounding patronizing.”

“No, you just managed to turn the corner.” Feuilly took the chopping board back over to the stove. “Honestly, though? You look well. I was half worried you wouldn't get home in one piece; you sounded really defeated over the phone.”

“Oh.” Enjolras grimaced. “Sorry, that was a strange morning. Preceded by a strange night.”

“It was _yesterday_.”

“Which was also a strange day. I really am sorry, I didn't mean to worry you.”

“Has the strangeness been resolved?”

Enjolras sighed. “It will be, hopefully.”

Feuilly said nothing; his eyebrows offered the only response.

“There's really no need to worry,” Enjolras repeated.

“No, hey, it's none of my business.” Feuilly was tossing vegetables in a pan, and Enjolras felt lucky to live with the one person among their friends who actually meant that when they said it. “So, about that business that _is_ mine, sort of; did you want to know about some of the new members? Courfeyrac told us he was keeping you up to date, but you can't have had much time to talk.”

That was where they stayed. Feuilly talked about recruiting, about rallies and fellow students, he talked about his own classes and asked about Enjolras' studies. In a rush, all of that came back to Enjolras as well: he'd missed so much, he was going to have to find his place in the group again, he was going to be perceived as the new member by the handful of people who had joined in his absence, he was going to have to catch up on all the hands-on issues that he'd fallen behind on as a matter of course, and unless he started with that right away, it'd be difficult to make up for lost time. Heaps of work had to be waiting for him.

Slightly dazzled, he realised that he found that prospect thrilling.

The moment Feuilly left, he found the pile of mail that had been strategically set aside by Feuilly, and started sorting through it – a stack for things that would go straight to the trash, a stack for letters from school, a stack for everything concerning Les Amis, a stack for insurances and banks and other things he didn't want to pay any attention to just yet. That done, he grabbed the stack of activism-related mail, withdrew to his room, and got to work.

There was so much to do. He hadn't thought of this on the way home, and certainly not before, but of course there was; his tasks may have been transferred to others and scattered, but he hadn't been replaced. Some of the letters were asking for cooperation, one sought their help looking for volunteers on an education project, all of them were from people he'd built the connection to personally. Most letters to Les Amis would have made it directly to the post office, addressed to the whole group, but those that were meant for him alone were from people who had favours to ask or partnerships to offer, and he felt inexplicably thrilled going through them.

Could this possibly be what he'd missed the most? It didn't feel like an obligation; it never had, to him. Courfeyrac expressed his indignation, genuine or not, when Enjolras texted him for some clarifications, and reprimanded him for diving straight back into work as soon as he'd arrived. The truth was that he was very much avoiding the genuinely unpleasant things: he had an internship to prepare for, he had paperwork from a few months to catch up on. That was work. This, he thought after he'd sent email replies to four letters, may be the most useful kind of productive procrastination, but more than that, it was what he loved.

He wondered, as he went through more mail, what he'd expected to be the most relieved to have back. Paris, he'd thought. With all its restlessness and diversity and life. His friends, too, and that still carried, because two parts of him were struggling even now; one that wanted to stay in the lovely confinement of noiselessness offered by his flat for days on end, to breathe and charge, and one that urged him to get into a taxi this instance and find every single person in this city that he'd missed. Still, though, the feeling he could have back now and that he'd missed so much it had become alien, was this – a purpose, something that needed him as much as he needed it. He thought of the hours spent studying and researching and writing in Norway, and how without the rest of his life to even that part out, it had felt like a particularly slow and vicious kind of torture. He thought that if that was what studying, _just_ studying was like, it was difficult to believe that he could ever have considered that to be something desirable, and then, he thought that perhaps he had laid out a path for himself that wasn't his at all.

At that point, he decided that thinking might not be the best thing for him to do just then, and set about putting together the list of sponsors he'd promised Chris in Liège.

She'd only asked tentatively, and because it could never hurt to have a few more names for the obligatory lists to tick off when support for projects was needed – she'd even said that they weren't in a hurry; there was no reason to stress about it. Enjolras finished the list by half past ten and emailed it to Chris only to receive a Skype reply minutes later: _Thanks! I told you not to stress and you clearly ignored that, so that's disappointing, but it's still nice to have on hand. Did you both make it to Paris okay?_

Enjolras took a moment and tried to understand his own surprise at the question. Somehow, he'd expected for her to have been in touch with Grantaire already. They'd talked a lot more to each other than Enjolras had to either of them at that party, and they'd seemed like a natural fit, too. _We're home safe_ , he replied, and then, for the sake of politeness, _Sorry we weren't there for the clean-up_.

 _Yeah, you should be ashamed_ , she wrote back. _Fleeing the scene with the party in full swing, and leaving all that trash behind? Not okay_.

In spite of himself, Enjolras smiled. _Again, sorry. Please consider the early sponsors list an attempt to make up for not having stayed late_.

 _No worries_ , she replied after a few moments. _R did say you weren't a party kind of guy, normally. It was just really nice to meet you two_.

 _You as well_ , Enjolras wrote, and then hesitated. What had Grantaire said, if they'd talked about him? Was it ridiculous to wonder? Because after this night and morning, he was reasonably certain he had an accurate enough idea of how Grantaire felt about him, and while the possibility that he might still be wrong about that was slightly too scary to consider, he wondered what had gone through Grantaire's mind at the river. Had he been keeping Enjolras at a distance deliberately? Had he always been doing that, for however long he'd been feeling the need to? If so, was it a good thing that Enjolras had never noticed or always misinterpreted him, or was it an indication of how terrible they were at understanding one another? Enjolras bit his lip, then sent, _It was lucky you two spotted each other_.

Not losing a second, Chris replied, _Lucky OR FATE_ , and then added after a longer moment, _Is he doing okay? I haven't been able to reach him so far_.

 _He's fine_ , Enjolras sent back, just to reassure her, and then forbid himself to wonder why it was that Grantaire hadn't looked at his phone all afternoon, and if he was texting back the others, if he wanted to be alone or if he'd gone out to greet the city. It wasn't for Enjolras to worry about. _Happy to be back home, I think. He'll reply eventually, don't worry_.

 _No worries here_ , she wrote back instantly, and Enjolras smiled. _I'll be off, ok? Take care of each other_.

The simplicity she said it with, as if that was something obvious, something to be taken for granted, stung in an unexpected place. Enjolras had tried not to think about how they must have looked to her, to all of them – like close friends who watched out for each other without question or condition, like people who never had to say it, but who knew, without asking, that the other loved them. It was impossible for Enjolras to imagine, and when he tried, the thought ached. _All of you, too_ , he replied, and she wished him a good night with a smiley-face before logging off.

He couldn't think about Grantaire. Since this morning, he hadn't allowed himself to, because once he thought about him, he was everything he had room for in his mind. It was so easy to latch on to, for the images to come back, to remember Grantaire underneath him, eyes bright and reverent and unbelievably beautiful, unravelling a little more with every other touch; Grantaire in the sun, the warm skin of their arms touching and Enjolras having to keep himself from kissing him again while every part of him screamed to just do it; Grantaire in the hotel bed, asleep and open and impossible to look away from as Enjolras tried to tear himself away. Grantaire in the morning, quiet and taciturn and, obviously in the hopes that Enjolras wouldn't notice, terrified, with shame written across every hard line of his tense frame.

Enjolras knew exactly where he'd misstepped. He knew he shouldn't have left, then, that it had been cowardly and unfair and easily enough to ruin the fragile trust between them. He had no excuse. When he'd woken up, he'd wanted to touch Grantaire so much that he couldn't move, and then, later, he'd wanted to say the one thing he'd not allowed himself to admit for much longer than their trip home, but he'd insisted that Grantaire deserved better than whatever mess of selfish realisations Enjolras had to offer then. That, Enjolras was still certain of. He'd needed time, yes, and not only for his own sake, but also for Grantaire's.

He was surrounded by letters. Already, after he'd only been distracted for a few moments, they seemed to be taunting him – this was the work he loved to do, sure, but it was also a means of emptying his mind of anything else. Maybe, in his reproach and the open demand that Enjolras let himself arrive home before getting busy again, Courfeyrac had a point.

Leaving his phone and laptop and stacks of letters on the desk, he grabbed the first book he saw – a collection of essays he'd not gotten around to finishing before he left and then deemed too unimportant to take with him – and pulled his favourite chair in the living room up to the window. It opened to the street, and Enjolras thought again how the advantage of not living in one of the streets prettier houses with beautiful historical façades and balconettes was having a view of these houses, which was, arguably, preferable to living in them and having a view of the shabby 1980s facade of the building Enjolras and Feuilly lived in. It hadn't grown entirely dark yet, and the remains of sun-warmth and light clung to the rooftops and alleys while the city, if softer now, still buzzed with life. Enjolras read, and listened, and as he did, everything settled, his mind quieted, and the jumble of thoughts and plans and doubts rearranged itself into something sorted and useful.

Feuilly, having gone out for drinks after class in the hope of giving Enjolras the time he needed to settle back in, found him asleep in his chair when he came home, and didn't wake him.

 

Combeferre texted Enjolras at exactly half past eight, saying he was downstairs. Enjolras, in falling asleep over his book and not waking until half past two in the morning, had missed Combeferre's texts from the previous night asking if he could come by before his shift, only to frantically reply to them this morning with a half-hearted invitation to improvised breakfast.

“Oh,” Combeferre said when he saw him, and Enjolras felt similarly. Combeferre held onto his arms tightly as they traded quick kisses, and then shook his head, dazzled. “Seems longer than two weeks, doesn't it?”

“Don't get me started,” Enjolras murmured, and then they were back exactly where they'd left off, with the same ease and understanding that had come with sharing a dorm and a life.

“I wish I had more time.” Combeferre was reclining comfortably on their couch, but Enjolras still noticed a tension in him he couldn't seem to shake. “Honestly, it feels as if I haven't apologised enough for all the effort you had to go through after I was gone.”

“It's lucky we both know I won't accept any apologies, then,” Enjolras said easily. “If anything, the clinic should apologise to you a thousand times over. They shouldn't get away with treating volunteers that way, especially if they're untrained.”

“Do I hear you doubting my skills as a nurse, Enjolras?” Combeferre smiled over his coffee, and this, Enjolras had missed, too, much more than he'd realised. Lowering his eyes, Combeferre sobered a shade. “They barely have resources, but they'd never demand anything. It was completely my choice.”

Enjolras knew him well enough to know that it wasn't a choice, not really, but that argument had been hashed out by them over and over, and they'd both come to realise that settling on anything was impossible.

“Did you check your studentweb account yet?” The most transparent change of topic, but Enjolras didn't mind. Combeferre always knew what not to ask. “The grades for Organization and Politics were put up a couple days ago.”

“They were, weren't they?” Enjolras had known that, somewhere at the back of his mind. “Is it strange that I haven't thought about any classes at all in a week?”

“I haven't, either, to be honest.” Combeferre shook his head with a smile. “Brehan texted me two days ago to ask how I'd done on the final essay, and I didn't even know what he meant for a second. It's so surreal. We spent months there, and everything here has been so all-consuming that it's as if they never happened.” He had a sip of his coffee before he frowned, unhappy. “That doesn't feel fair.”

“You were cheated of a proper goodbye.” Contrary to Enjolras, Combeferre had deserved and needed one – slower and warmer, he'd made some kind of home in their stuffy dorm rooms, and he'd loved the landscape and city and people with more than just the fleeting kind of tenderness Enjolras felt for a place that had taken him in for a few months. “It doesn't feel fair because it isn't.”

Combeferre said nothing for a while, silently nursing his coffee. “I would say I'll do better next time, but...” He shrugged with a helpless smile, and the rest of the sentence was too broad for either of them to say, but easy enough for Enjolras to understand. If there had ever been a time where slacking off was possible, where disappearing from the country for half a year didn't tear an unforgivable hole into their CV, it was behind them. They'd both finish their MAs within the year, and Enjolras often thought that the nostalgia that came with that was entirely ridiculous for people so young, but he wasn't immune to it, either.

“You never know,” he said, fully aware that he could only say it because he hadn't spent the past two weeks watching over ill people while running on next to no sleep. Still, he meant it, and Combeferre was gracious enough to accept it.

“You never do.”

Like Feuilly, he didn't ask about Grantaire, or the lack of an explanation of the extension of their trip from two to six days. Respect was part of it, Enjolras knew, but he also wondered if Combeferre had no need to ask because he'd already known the things Enjolras had realised over the past few days. It wasn't unheard of, between them. The forty-five minutes they had before Combeferre had to leave for the next shift still weren't nearly enough, and they left them both with things unsaid and the silent agreement to make time for those soon. As soon as they could. Which, Enjolras thought as he walked back from the métro station after taking Combeferre there, wasn't likely to be very soon at all.

 

Feuilly left right after breakfast, and Enjolras, alone again in the apartment, began to feel everyone's absence in a way that didn't offer the comfort it had yesterday. Some hours, he managed to pass getting things done that had been inevitably neglected in his absence; airing out his room and stocking up on the food that he liked but Feuilly didn't and emailing some organisations to let them know he'd be able to take up his volunteer hours again. Afterwards, in a helpless attempt to keep busy, he considered his options – driving into the inner city just to see it again, maybe swinging by the faculty library to see if he ran into anyone he knew, texting one of the others to see if they were free – and as he did, he noticed his mind straying. He hadn't given much thought to how he'd spend the day, thinking he'd be busy enough getting his life back in order, and he _should_ be, there was still enough for him to do, only he couldn't bring himself to, and he knew all too well why that was.

Not five minutes later, his phone buzzed with a response from Grantaire. Enjolras had texted him, having given up on trying not to sound desperate, _Just in case you're free already; could I come over right now?_ and Grantaire had replied, immediately and with no punctuation, _Please_.

 

In front of Grantaire's apartment, Enjolras thought he remembered the feeling from yesterday morning and their drive home, the constant urge to be closer to Grantaire, the effort of restraint, but when Grantaire opened the door, he realised that he didn't, at all. Maybe it hadn't been quite as bad yesterday; maybe Grantaire had looked less soft then, less hopeful and lovely, or maybe Enjolras had been too cerebral and focused to notice. It didn't matter. Enjolras forced himself to remain standing where he was until Grantaire, with a careful smile, stepped aside to let him in. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

In the corner far over at the balcony of Grantaire's messy – lived-in, Enjolras thought, and homely against all odds – one-room apartment, Javeline was deeply engaged in physical combat against an invisible foe. It did an effective job of cutting through the tension.

Grantaire followed her with his eyes, frowning. “Yeah, we should probably go outside.”

Unquestioning, Enjolras followed to the balcony, which wasn't large, but still added considerably to the small space of the apartment. There was just enough room for two old folding chairs and an ashtray, and between those, Grantaire somehow looked equally at home and completely lost. Neither of them had the peace of mind to sit down. Enjolras didn't doubt that waiting for this conversation had been the right decision, but suddenly, waiting even a minute longer was unbearable.

“I'm sorry about yesterday,” he said, because it was the first thing that needed to be said. Wide-eyed, Grantaire opened his mouth to respond, and Enjolras shook his head. “I know. It wasn't anyone's fault, I know it wasn't, and I'm here now, but I just – I was trying to be fair, yesterday, and it still came at your expense. I'm sorry.”

Still, Grantaire shook his head. He rested against the balcony's handrail next to Enjolras, resigned and a little calmer. “I honestly couldn't have made all that any more difficult for you,” he admitted, and there it was again, that sardonic smile. “The second you came back to the room, I was just – I was so caught up in my own issues, and I didn't even think. Like, at all. I didn't try to understand you, I just assumed I already did, as if I knew all there was to know. And from there it kind of... turned into really fucked up self-preservation masking as diplomacy? Or something? It didn't make a lot of sense.” He shrugged, and obviously put effort into making it look non-committal. “I didn't really leave you with a right way to act. If anything, I should apologise for that.”

Enjolras let the words sink in, and listened to the noise from the street below them, and breathed. They were so close to talking themselves into a circle again, and the prospect was terrifying and real, and he couldn't do this, moderation be damned. “Grantaire, are you in love with me?”

The question dropped into nothing at all, and for a moment, the small space they shared was wrapped in complete silence. Against every sense of decency, Enjolras let his eyes fall on Grantaire, who looked miserable, as if those words, simple as they were, were the last thing between them that held the power to terrify him. Then, in a movement so quick he must have hoped Enjolras would miss it, he nodded.

Something in Enjolras' chest shattered and warmth spread, in a rush, all the way to his fingertips. He said, without thinking, “And you have been, haven't you, you – _have been_.”

Grantaire's adam's apple moved as he swallowed, hard. Anguish was written all over his features, Enjolras found it unbearable to look at, feeling incapable of changing it or doing something or moving at all, and then Grantaire said, “Enjolras,” and Enjolras remembered the tone exactly, from the hotel room and from the river and from countless times long before that, when Enjolras had still refused to listen. He was saying _please_ and he was saying _listen to me_ , and Enjolras did, and kissed him.

Grantaire hadn't expected it. His lips parted easily, more with surprise than anything else, and Enjolras pulled away to touch Grantaire's temple with his lips instead, hands brushing the sides of is neck. He wanted to say so much, and he would, in a moment, because this wasn't nearly enough to make Grantaire understand, but Grantaire, when he found Enjolras' eyes, must have been equally desperate to touch him again, hands finding Enjolras' shoulders and clinging on as if he was trying to tether them both to the spot, a reassurance that they were there and real.

“I have no idea how you're here,” Grantaire murmured, and Enjolras wasn't entirely sure how much time had passed, “fuck, you're so – I can't comprehend the fact of you, I never could. I don't know how anyone can possibly be the way you are.”

Enjolras felt himself wanting to smile, and found that he couldn't, quite. “I haven't explained,” he said, and Grantaire, helpless, laughed.

“No need. Fuck. I'm so beyond making myself question this.”

“I don't think it was ever just you,” Enjolras said, quiet and steady, and that was enough to catch Grantaire off guard. The wildness of his smile disappeared, and his grip loosened, enough for Enjolras to pull back slightly. “That's what I was – I realised that, yesterday. Or the night before, or the night before that, I'm not sure. I was –” He breathed in deeply. There was nothing to fear, here, except hearing himself say those words out loud. Admitting them to himself was infinitely more difficult than admitting them to Grantaire. “Sometimes it feels as if there's so much happening in my brain, and I think – I tell myself, obviously that must have gotten me somewhere, since I've been thinking so much. But I can think, and think, and _think_ , and all it does is put up this whole construct of theories and ideas and useless things for me to hide behind, and then I stop and try to really listen, and then –” He stopped, eyes wandering until they settled, again, on Grantaire's own. “What I'm trying to say is – I think the entire rest of me wanted you long before my brain caught up.”

Grantaire had listened patiently, his lips slightly parted. When Enjolras fell silent, letting his last words linger between them, he smiled. “I think somewhere between the lines of that last part, you called me hot.”

Enjolras almost laughed. “That's not – I mean, yes, but I didn't mean that. I meant...” He let his hands trail down and find Grantaire's, one of them still faintly showing his fineliner tattoo. “Just before I asked if you could drive me, when you'd been outside for that phone call, do you remember that? You came back in, and you looked so miserable, and I had this really short moment where I just wanted to – I was so ready to take on whoever put that look on your face, but I had no idea what to do with that feeling, it was like a violent impulse. I just ignored it. But it wasn't the first or the only time. I can't let you think there was nothing.”

Grantaire's expression was painfully easy to read, then, and he didn't need to say the confirmation out loud for Enjolras to know. He didn't say, _I thought it was just me for so long_ , because it wasn't what either of them needed to hear, and he didn't say how difficult this was to believe or how incredibly horrible at paying attention to himself Enjolras was. He kissed him instead, a silent gesture of thanks and acceptance, and Enjolras decided that for the moment, they'd talked enough.

 

Some time later found them tangled together on Grantaire's couch, pleasantly lost in a haze of warmth and closeness. Almost too much warmth, with the summer heat adding to it, and almost too much closeness, their bodies heavy and far too clothed, but for now, it was just the right kind of overwhelming. Enjolras wound fingers into Grantaire's curls, brushing through them absent-mindedly, and now and then, Grantaire hummed, and Enjolras pushed down the impulse to let the warmth tip over into heat.

“You don't really give the impression of being someone so physical, you know,” Grantaire murmured finally, with thoughtfulness that almost offended Enjolras with how inappropriate it was. “We kissed before either of us said anything. Tell me how that makes sense. It's _us_.”

Enjolras liked the sound of that 'us' too much to respond immediately. “I felt so selfish,” he said then. He'd meant to admit it earlier, but so many other things had suddenly seemed more important. “That's why I left, yesterday night. I felt as if I'd taken all that for myself, I knew I _wanted_ all that for myself. I had a whole crisis. It was awful.”

“ _Selfish_.” Grantaire breathed out and shook his head, the movement heavy against Enjolras' chest. “Jesus fucking Christ, Enjolras.”

“I didn't know.”

“Neither did I,” Grantaire said, and it sounded oddly like a confession. “Know how you felt, I mean. I could have, I think. Someone else might have.”

Enjolras hummed. 'Someone else' were words he didn't care for right now, and he had the sudden desire to take Grantaire's mind off them – after all, there were more interesting things to discover currently, and neither of them had known where to start until now. He didn't have time to finish that thought before the doorbell rang, and Grantaire, exhilarated, laughed.

“Fuck,” he said, and moved to sit up, pulling Enjolras with him from the haze, “the outside world. That's - still a thing.”

Enjolras let his gaze drift to the alarm clock on the nightstand at the other end of the room. “Combeferre,” he guessed, and Grantaire nodded.

“This is going to be difficult to hide on a ten seconds notice.”

Enjolras pushed away his instinct to be appalled, and instead walked up to the door. He could tell Grantaire later, he thought, that he wouldn't mind if the whole world knew, starting with his best friend, ending again and again with every new person they met. For now, he pushed the panel to buzz Combeferre up, and said, “Let's not bother.”

 

* * *

 

Grantaire's breath forms clouds in the air, and his hands are buried deep in the pockets of his coat. Paris is cold, and he thinks that perhaps he should relish it before the south draws them into its indecisive non-winter, its rain and its steady ten degrees, but he can't bring himself to. Enjolras, because he's terrible, smiles when he appears in the doorway and sees Grantaire by the car, practically dancing in one spot to keep warm. “You look cold,” he says, just for the sake of it, and Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Not at all. Did you take your time on purpose?”

“Obviously. I do so enjoy seeing you freeze.” Having tossed his bag into the back of the car, he leans in to kiss Grantaire quickly, seeking one of Grantaire's pocketed hands with his to warm it for a moment. “Did you remember the books?”

“Already in the back,” Grantaire says, and walks around to get into the driver's seat. “I still think it's weird. As if you're bequeathing them.”

“It's a system.” Enjolras gets into the car with him, and snow topples from the roof as he pulls the door shut.

“I know,” Grantaire says, and he's secretly still a little giddy about the fact that he really _does_ , he _knows_ these things about Enjolras now, the mundane, insignificant things, the odd things, the private things none of their friends know. One of them being the tradition of bringing his textbooks from a finished semester home to his mother when he doesn't need them anymore, because apparently, she likes to follow along in his studies to make up for never having been able to pursue her own. “A system can still be weird.”

“I didn't say it wasn't.” Enjolras looks back to check their luggage on the back seat, and then around to familiarise himself with the car. It's Bahorel's, because neither of them has one, and Enjolras normally takes the train home. Grantaire still isn't entirely sure why the exception this time was necessary, and he doesn't dare suggest nostalgia. “I can take over for the second half, that's the trickier part of the route.”

“I'm glad jokes about my lacking sense of direction are still funny,” Grantaire replies dryly. “By the way, Bahorel did a whole thing before he let me take off, the entire 'Let something happen to this car and you're dead' routine. I think it was only partially ironic, so. There's that.”

“And obviously, you didn't tell him there was no reason to worry.”

“Like hell. I told him we had every intention of going Mad Max on this thing.”

“Of course you did.” Enjolras doesn't go to the effort of faking exasperation. “You realise there's no point in trying to mess with him, right? I remember him telling me he was aware of this being a 'delicate situation'. It was really hard to stay serious after that.”

“I imagine it wasn't easy for him either, using the word delicate in a sentence relating to you.” They're on the main road already, and Enjolras' eyes follow the signs. “Over to the A10,” he says, and Grantaire sets the blinker.

He still doesn't love driving, even though their short drives so far have revealed that he's much smarter and better behind the wheel than Grantaire could ever hope to be. Grantaire wasn't allowed in the lessons when Enjolras took it back up again, the simple reason being that his mere presence is, apparently, 'too distracting', and Grantaire didn't manage to take offence at that accusation.

“By the way,” Enjolras draws in his legs to sit more comfortably, “the reason I asked you to stay at your place for the night –”

“You were worried neither of us was going to get any sleep otherwise?” Grantaire asks, grinning, and is whacked across the head not a second later.

“I knew you weren't going to leave me alone to spend hours in front of the computer in peace because you wouldn't have believed I wasn't working,” Enjolras corrects, and produces an iPod out of nowhere. “Anyway, we now have a six-hour playlist with perfect pacing, and you're welcome.”

Grantaire bites his lip, and _fuck_ , he's in love. He's been waiting for that realisation to stop taking him by surprise twice a day, because he supposes it will, eventually, but so far, no luck. “I feel like I should have guessed that.”

“You'll get there,” Enjolras says, and the first song starts playing, a soft instrumental intro with just enough high piano notes to sound like winter.

Seven hundred kilometres ahead of them, with Enjolras' parents and childhood home waiting at the end, and Grantaire can't bring himself to be nervous. Not yet, at least. He sneaks glances at Enjolras, who rests comfortably against the door and listens to the music he chose, closing his eyes in parts and quietly humming along to others.

Because he almost says something else, and he's been reliably informed that it's getting ridiculous and too sugary for anyone to watch, Grantaire says, “Jeu du bac?”

Enjolras, smiling, says, “Just drive.”

Grantaire does.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not an exaggeration that the last two chapters wouldn't have been possible without the lovely people who agreed to god-parent this fic in my hour of need. The deal was to dedicate these chapters to you, and I thought I'd be extra-embarrassing and go all the way with personalised dedications as if this were a Work Of Some Significance, because the opportunity was just too blatant not to seize.  
>   
> Thanks to @war-boyfriends, who was the very first to volunteer and has my eternal gratitude, @nyquildriver, who is the best and kindest of people and amazingly a fellow marzipan enthusiast, @fairybrose, future co-creator of a Broadway smash hit for the ages, @seagreeneyes, who I couldn't be more honoured to share a birthday with, @lochg, who I'm pretty sure has read the brick more carefully than Hugo himself, @kvothes, of whom I am, always, quietly in awe, @seameetstheshore, who had kind words to spare, and @witchingyouweresomehowhereagain, who hopefully hasn't been let down by the rest of this story. Thank you all for letting me write for you. <3 (Also, should I have forgotten anyone, please don't hesitate to shout at me.)
> 
> Finally, it probably goes without saying, but the route in this fic is absolutely ridiculous, and please never even so much as consider modelling your own cross-European road trip after it.
> 
> Finally-finally, I'm [here](http://lesamis.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, and thank you for reading. ♥


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